Benedictus
by Lisa Paris
Summary: He ran for dear life along the corridor, knowing all the while, he wouldn't make it . . .
1. Chapter 1

* * *

**_Benedictus_**

_I refuse to apologise for this multi-chapter story, it's an exercise in pure self-indulgence. A good, old-fashioned Don angst-fest, of both the physical and emotional kind. It's also a little nod to those pictures - for some reason, they just make my heart melt. All those black and white posters of beautiful men, tenderly cradling a tiny child. _

_Lisa._

* * *

**Benedictus**

_In the tender compassion of our God _

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us, _

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet into the way of peace. _

From the Benedictus Song of Zechariah The Gospel of Luke

* * *

**Part One**

_**Oasis Towers Building – Los Angeles**_

_**Now . . .**_

He ran for dear life along the corridor, knowing all the while, he wouldn't make it. They'd only passed on the message a minute ago, but the warning was a lifetime too late.

Anonymous. _Well, that was a given_. Sent via the local news station. _A sick surplus of top-grade publicity,_ he supposed_, in exchange for a little seasonal carnage. _

They already knew it was a catering truck, jam-packed to the gunnels with high explosive. It had been driven into the underground parking lot, and left abandoned in the cavernous unloading bay; designed to cause maximum damage, just outside the main kitchen doors. The vehicle must have been hi-jacked sometime last night, but the company hadn't noticed until this morning.

Too engaged making extra deliveries, in the frenzied run-up to Christmas.

Too busy fulfilling last-minute orders, in the crazy, pre-holiday boom.

The bomb-site had been chosen carefully. These guys really knew what they were doing. In-fact, Don had to hand it to the bastards, they'd executed their plans with ruthless efficiency. Somehow, they must have got hold of the architectural blue-prints, and worked with a structural engineer. A significant blast at this particular point would weaken the whole integrity of the building. It would destabilise pivotal foundations and cause significant damage; maybe enough to result in grand scale devastation, and bring the entire tower block tumbling down.

He came to a fork in the corridor. A green exit sign guided him one way. He knew it led out to the front atrium – tens of seconds and two hundred yards from safety. He'd been inside the building before, and had a rough sense of the geographical layout. If he headed for the vestibule and followed the signs, there was a good chance he might make it out alive.

It wasn't entirely impossible. He was damned fit and he could run pretty fast. A burst of speed, a stroke of luck, and just maybe he would stand a fighting chance.

_Maybe._

In this case, a word like _maybe_ might not be good enough.

Don turned and ran the opposite way. He took the sign which said _Crèche._ Someone screamed into his earpiece, but he deliberately blanked out what they were saying. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. He didn't want to know how many minutes. Didn't want to know how many seconds he had left, or how close to the fucking bomb they thought he was.

He didn't stop to consider it might be a hoax. The caller had been too detail/specific. And, just lately, there'd been an increase in chatter, all the classic warning signs had been in place. He'd had a feeling, a tightening in the region of his gut; something pretty bad was going down.

As a result of the Intel and on Washington's orders, they'd upped their terror alert status to red. All Christmas leave had been cancelled, as of this morning, and to be honest, he hadn't been sorry. The thought of getting through the seasonal festivities this year, had left him a little short of dismayed.

So okay, you might as well call him the Grinch, but it gave him the excuse he'd been praying for. No parties or wearing goddamn stupid hats. No egg-nog or false bonhomie. No awkward moments back at the Craftsman, watching Amita nibble Charlie's ear like a pretzel, and all the while having to sit there, trying hard to forget he was alone.

Not that he'd ever wanted this, of course. _Never this, not in his worse nightmares. _He'd do anything to prevent it from happening. Not on his watch, and not in his city.

_No - this was it_. The balloon had gone up.

He'd known from the beginning. He was sure of it.

Right from the very first second, when they'd heard from their man inside the mosque. And besides, there were the catering company drivers, found dead at the roadside this morning. Glassy-eyed and already cold – the black blood congealing on their throats.

_Merry Christmas, Peace on Earth, and Goodwill to all Men. _

In a way, it was like some grim form of joke.

None of the irony was lost on him. Not a jot, not a bitter stroke of it. Last night - the way he'd been feeling – this gave everything a warped kind of twist. There was no time. _He_ _had no time for this._ He was ashamed of the flash of self-indulgence.

_The fucked-up debacle also known as his life?_

It was nothing in comparison to this.

There was a seething throng of people around him now, all stampeding towards the front of the building. He fought and struggled through the crush of humanity, battling his way against the tide. And not just adults and office workers, Don muttered up a short prayer of thanks. He was relieved to see some of the nursery staff, already leading their small charges to safety.

The evacuation procedures were underway. Thank God, _someone _– and he was betting on Reeves - had used their common sense and forewarned them. Although, what the hell were they supposed to do with a few minutes? From start to finish, it wasn't nearly enough.

The fire alarms began wailing like banshees.

It was about time. _Reeves again,_ he guessed. So much for not causing mass panic, she was concentrating on the priorities. _Save as many lives as humanly possible and get Joe Public out in time._ He liked the thought of her in charge on the outside, and at least for now, she'd stopped yelling in his ear.

_Mickey Mouse, the Little Mermaid_ and _Dumbo the Elephant._

A whole phalanx of Disney wall murals.

_Thank the lord - _the place was where he remembered. Don carried on down the corridor. He _had_ to check – just had to do this – otherwise, he'd never live with himself.

Mobiles, murals and security doors, the signs all told him he'd reached the crèche. There was no adherence to child protection protocol now – the security doors had been flung wide open. He came to a halt just inside them, and quickly surveyed the scene.

As far as he could tell, most of the pre-schoolers were gone, shepherded, he prayed, out of danger. But - _and this was so not good_ - his heart missed a stuttering beat. It was obvious with just a cursory glance, the place wasn't quite empty yet.

_There were three adult staff left behind in the centre, and at least half a dozen, screaming babies. _

A woman turned to him, wild-eyed, taking in his FBI jacket. She reached out to him urgently, with shaking hands, and pulled him further into the room. "Can you tell us - _they_ won't tell us what's happening – only that it isn't a drill. We've evacuated all of the children, but we still need some help with the babies."

"It isn't a practise." Don shouted at her, well aware of how harsh his voice sounded. He had no time for social niceties. _There might be no time left at all._ "Get them out - you need to get out of here now. Fast as you can - head for the front atrium!"

"But the parking lot exit's much closer - "

"Not the parking lot," Don grabbed hold of her arm, and shook it, his fingers digging in cruelly. _What the hell, he was probably hurting her._ He squeezed harder for extra emphasis. "_Not the parking lot, _do you hear me? You need to get as close to the front as you can - to get clear of the rear of the building."

She looked at him then, and saw the truth in his eyes. Her own clouded with realisation. Her mouth opened and closed like a goldfish, as she breathed the words; _"Oh God, a bomb!"_

"Get them out of here, _now_!"

There was no point even bothering to answer. Don pushed her firmly away from him, and turned to the other nursery assistants. They were already carrying two babies a piece, bundled up in blankets, under their arms.

"Fast as you can. The front of the building. You need to run, go on, get out of here!"

They obeyed his instructions in silence, moving quickly, with frightened faces. He waited, with barely concealed impatience, as they made their way through the doors. _Not fast enough._ It just didn't seem fast enough.

"For Christ's sake, get a move on!"

"Agent – I could use some help here?"

It was the same woman he'd first spoken to. Don ground his teeth in irritation - what the hell did she think she was doing?Instead of heading straight for the exit, she was still bending over one of the cribs.

"You'll have to take her, I can't manage three." She hitched her two charges closer, and indicated another crib.

Don realised his first, sketchy estimate was wrong. Not six, but in-fact, seven babies. _Great, this was just what he needed; he had no recourse but to carry one. _He shook his head, about to refuse her, but she was already handing him a blanket. She'd obviously taken it for granted he would be evacuating right alongside them.

He paused in dismay, his mind working frantically._ Plan A _just flew out the window. So much for him reaching the parking lot before the bomb blew them all sky high. Just what he would have done if he got there in time was quite another matter entirely. It was unlikely they would have abandoned the ignition keys or left without disabling the truck.

But now, that option had been taken away. Fate had simply decided against it. Events had conspired against him, and stripped the final call out of his hands. Before he even had time to argue, the woman fled through the doors and was gone. Don stood, nonplussed, and watched her go. Just for a second, he was almost resentful. He realised it was highly irrational, but the emotion frightened him somehow. _Focus_ - he forced his mind back to the present. This was so not the time to go losing it. He needed to focus solely on the moment, and ignore the seething mass of darkness in his head.

There _were_ no other choices left to him now, Don was faced with a _fait d'accompli._ He scooped the baby up close to his chest, and tucked her clumsily into a blanket.

"Sorry, sweetie," he murmured, "there's no time for polite introductions." She stared up at him with solemn eyes, and he was unsurprised when she refused to answer.

_The way his luck had been running with women?_

It was pretty much par for the course.

They were the last two out of the centre, and by now, the corridor was empty. The heaving press of people had faded away, and Don was glad to see the place seemed deserted. He scanned ahead for the three women and their tiny, live packages. Thank the lord, they were already out of sight.

In spite of the klaxons, the baby was silent, and Don was grateful, at least, for small mercies. She was surprisingly easy to carry, fitting snugly in the curve of his arm. He flicked his eyes down to the fuzz of dark hair. She didn't seem all that bothered he was running. He'd been slightly worried about jostling her, but it wasn't as if he had an alternative. He muttered a half-hearted apology. It was better than being blown up.

_What was it he'd heard about babies?_

For all their size, they were surprisingly tough.

He reached the fork in the corridor and was forced to grind to a halt. The building's safety precautions had begun to kick in, and the heavy fire-doors had swung closed. He shifted the baby round under his arm, ignoring her squawk of protest. The delay cost them valuable seconds, as Don wrenched open one of the handles.

"How long?" He spoke into his headset. "Do you copy, Reeves? Tell me how long?"

Aside from the klaxons, there was no other noise. No shouting or chattering in his ear. He reached up, and patted the side of his head, but his earpiece failed to respond.

_Damn, just when he could have done with some input, the communications must have gone down. _

He wondered briefly about frequency jamming. _A shrewd move, in a sick kind of way._ Oh yeah, whoever had done this was exceptionally smart and well-prepared. They'd already proved they were ruthless, there was nothing he wouldn't put past them. It was a means of causing maximum confusion amid all the chaos of the bomb scare; a way of choking the security forces, and preventing them from doing their job. The terrorists had plenty of money and it was simple enough to get hold of the equipment.

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that they were fighting a well-organised war.

"Looks like it's just you and me, kid."

Don looked down at the baby, as he barrelled his way through the doors. Some strange impulse, or just plain gut-feeling, made him tuck her in close to his chest. The emergency lights flickered overhead, and then they were plunged into darkness. There was no premonition – no warning. Just a peculiar rushing sound in his head.

The explosion was surprisingly silent.

Then he realised his eardrums had burst.

The brutal force of the shockwave threw him a good fifteen feet through the air.

_**TBC**_

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**_Benedictus_**

_In the tender compassion of our God _

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us, _

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet into the way of peace. _

From the _Benedictus Song of Zechariah_ The Gospel of Luke

* * *

**Part Two**

_**Don Eppes' Apartment**_

_**Then – the previous evening . . .**_

The apartment was dark when he let himself in, but then again, it always was these days. Pretty dumb of him to expect anything else, not since Liz returned his spare set of keys.

He didn't waste any time with the light switch. Instead, he headed straight for the kitchen. There were only two things he wanted – an empty glass and the bourbon to fill it.

_Christ, what a day. _

What a bitch of a day. For all sorts of shapes and reasons. There was a knot of anxiety balled tight in his chest which stubbornly refused to go away.

First of all, there was the little girl's body. _As if that wasn't enough._ She'd looked just like a sleeping princess – like something out of a children's story. Except that this was no fucking fairytale, and the horrible, appalling irony was, she would never be awoken by a kiss.

_He'd been in the business long enough. _

_By now, he should be getting wise to this._

Don shivered and set the glass on the counter. He filled it up to the brim. Just the comforting splash of the liquor itself, helped settle some of the anguish he was feeling. He'd held out right until the last minute – relying on some kind of miracle. After all, it was the holy season, whether you were Jewish, Christian or Pagan. A time of blessings and benediction, so, if not now at Christmas, then when?

But once they'd broken down the door of the basement, he'd discovered all hope was dead.

It was bad enough entering a stranger's house and delivering tragic news about a loved one – but when you'd built up a relationship with the people concerned – it was a walk in the park, by comparison.

_Could he have handled it better? _

_Would anything have made a difference?_

There was no real answer to that question, to the inference of blame in their eyes. All he knew was, he'd been agent in charge of the case, and any ultimate responsibility was his.

According to the techs. she'd been dead for three days. Killed almost straight away after he'd snatched her. Once he'd satisfied his perverted needs, the freak hadn't wasted much time.

There was nothing anyone could have done.

_She was never going home alive. _

Recriminations, both public and personal. Then paperwork, and even worse, a press conference. It was barely the right side of midnight before he could call it a day. Megan, _God bless her,_ had stuck it out with him. She no longer had much to go home to. Not since Larry had become all existential and disappeared up his own backside.

He'd let Liz go several hours before that. It was probably some strange form of masochism, but he'd wanted her out of the office once he'd heard she was going on a date. The sight of her just kept rubbing salt in his wounds, and in the end, he'd sent her off-duty. It was late and he didn't need her around, in-spite of the heightened terror alerts.

If anything went down between now and the morning, then he'd just have to call her back in.

Otherwise, he was glad to see the back of her. Glad when he could lower the pretence. He no longer had the emotional resources, to either deal with it, or try to ignore it. He didn't want any more scenes with her. Not now, and especially not today.

Their break-up had been uncomfortable to say the least. Talk about out in the open. The old saying about dirty linen in public? It might just have been coined for him and Liz.

He hated it – each damned, awkward piece of it.

The whole thing had given him a headache, and he was stumbling around in a stupor. Every second he was forced to look at her only served to prolong the pain. Even then, she'd drawn out the agony. What the hell, did she want him to say something? To ask who the fuck she was meeting, or even worse, beg her to stay?

So, what did he know?

She'd made that quite clear. He had no rights and even fewer opinions. At the end of the day, he was only a man. Only capable of transient relationships. Apparently, he was a liar and a poor long-term prospect. He didn't understand squat about anything.

She'd left early, without a single word to him. Just more silent recrimination. And knowing she had gone – what she was doing – paradoxically, it hurt him all the more.

The bourbon hit the ground running. It burned a fiery path down his gullet. As he filled the empty glass for a second time, he realised he hadn't eaten today. Not that there was any point in it now – his fridge was about as barren as his apartment. And besides, the liquor was more than enough. The thought of food made him feel sick.

Maybe he should have gone to Pasadena.

_And then again, maybe not._

He took the bottle through to the living room, and sank wearily down onto the sofa. He didn't bother putting the light on, when he'd finished, he'd probably crash out right here. He couldn't face the thought of getting up again – not even to take a shower or get changed. It was easier, and a damned sight more comforting, to stay put and drift away into the darkness.

_Just him, the Jack, and a whole throng of ghosts. _

They were always there on the periphery, crowding his senses, pushing in on him. Silent but usually accusing, just waiting on the edge of his vision. He turned his head into the sofa, and tried to avoid their censure. The faces, mainly dead, but some living, which haunted him and refused to let him go.

_And now, the tiny, fairy princess had joined them, her blue eyes full of reproach. _

Don filled the glass to the top again. He was going to regret this in the morning. He couldn't even get smashed without feeling guilty - but for a while, the booze would help mask the pain. It was nothing a handful of Tylenol wouldn't cure, and so what, if it gave him a headache.

The way he felt right at this minute?

Know what, he didn't even care.

He wanted the solace only whisky could give him. The rapid descent into comatose. When you looked, when it came right down to it, the booze was a reliable constant. Steadfast and insidiously comforting; always there at the end of the day. People – hell, people, they left you. Regular as clockwork with no big surprises. You either pushed them away, or failed to measure up, but always finished the race alone. He'd thought for a while, it would be different with Liz, but he'd sabotaged that one, too.

He snorted out loud in the silence. _Way to go, Eppes, you're a prince among men. _

_Talking about the booze in this way - he sounded like a real lush. _

The irony was, he hated being single. In truth, he always had. This persona, this reputation as a commitment phobe, it had gained a life all of its own. Don Eppes - _Agent Supremo_ - ladies man and lothario. In nearly all of his recent relationships, he'd been the one who'd ended up getting dumped. _Oh yeah, he was becoming pretty good at it, he'd gotten quite adept at pretending._ He would brood for a time, go to ground and lick his wounds; after a while, he would pick himself up.

He was turning into a consumate actor, skilled at hiding the bruises on his heart.

But on nights like this, when he was vulnerable, it felt like there was no one out there. He would stare into the bottom of the glass and worry, he was destined to spend the rest of his life alone. And to be honest, the thought of it frightened him. Terrified him, in-fact.

_He was lonely. _

It was no big secret.

_There was a hollow space growing inside of him, and he didn't know if he could fill it again. _

It felt like everything was falling apart, like it was slowly eroding around him. He spent everyday working hard at the façade, trying his best to maintain the smokescreen. And most days, he probably succeeded, but it was hard – so hard to hold on.

He sighed; _God, how he hated self-pity, and yet here he was, positively wallowing._ He was restless, that was the truth of it. His skin felt too tight for his body. He was trapped in some kind of weird limbo, unable to shift backwards or forwards. Things were changing and growing all around him, but he was stuck here, unable to move on.

He'd always lived his life at high octane; forever pushing, always thrusting ahead. Since childhood, he'd been almost impatient, not content to let the world pass him by; constantly searching for new challenges, of both the physical and cerebral kind. Baseball and sports of any variety had satisfied this need when he was younger, and then, when he realised he would never make the cut, he'd turned to the FBI.

Of course, there was a little more to it than that. He wasn't some whacked-out, adrenalin junkie. Not like Coop and some of the others he'd run across during the course of his career. But, _and he was being totally honest now,_ he kinda liked the frisson of fear. The way a fresh case made his pulse race and the visceral cut and thrust of it.

_Hey, all this self-analysis stuff?_

Nothing to it - way too easy. With just a little help from Jack, who the hell needed a shrink?

Better start calling him Herr Doctor Freud.

Don Eppes? He was a piece of cake.

_More like a piece of fruitcake - with extra nuts on the side. _

_If only his life was as simple,_ he took another swallow of the bourbon, shaking his head at the mordant humour. _It sure hadn't seemed that way lately. _Actually, it resembled a minefield. He'd felt like he was swimming in a pool of molasses, filled with deadly, man-eating sharks.

The relationship with Liz had thrown him a lifeline – offered him a way out of the mire. For the first time in ages, he'd been feeling optimistic. Buoyant and happy again. Of course, in the end, it was too good to be true. He might have guessed fate would pitch him a curved ball - should have known Leah Wexford, and the can of worms called his past, would come back to bite him on the ass.

And now, she was gone – or as good as.

_He had to face it._

Him and Liz – they were _so_ over.

Hell, tonight, she'd made it clear she was moving forward, picking up the pieces, getting on with her life.

_To be quite blunt, he couldn't blame_ _her._

He wasn't exactly catch of the year, in fact, he was more like the booby prize. He was Don Eppes, the prince of darkness. A libertine and seducer of women. Incapable of sustaining a long-term relationship, either that, or the kiss of death. It was hard - so hard not to give into the shadows; he just hoped it would all work out in the end. It didn't stop him from wishing things were different. He reached for the bourbon again.

The worse thing was knowing his friends were concerned. In-fact, some of them were blatantly worried. Dad didn't make much of a secret about it, but then again, he wasn't known for his subtlety. It was clear in the way Megan kept an eye on him, trying her best to be discreet about it – obvious when his team acted warily, endeavouring to skirt around his short temper.

And then, of course, there was Charlie.

_What could he say about Charlie_?

Don sighed – might as well be honest. It was yet another no-go area. Ever since the debacle with that fool news reporter, and the subsequent fallout from the Bonnie Parks case, there was just no getting away from it; things had been pretty screwed up between them. It had resurrected all his worse nightmares, and brought back a slew of his old demons. They'd tumbled out of the closet to haunt him, to flaunt a whole string of fears in his face; stripping back the veneer of safety it had taken him so long to construct.

Charlie now had his act together big-time. He had Amita, he _actually_ had a social-life. Charlie, the man, had come into his own, he was more self-assurred, somehow just _tougher. _It had been a long time in the making, and Don was one hundred per cent, relieved to finally see it. His little brother had come of age - he had finally grown into his skin. He appeared to be over the spun-glass fragility which had blighted him for so many years. _In-fact_ - Don grimaced at the half-empty whisky tumbler _– he almost didn't recognise him sometimes._ It was hard reconciling today's Charlie with the timid, awkward man he'd once known.

His shy, introverted little brother had an ego the size of Texas.

_Was he holding him back?_

It was one of his worries. Charlie was brilliant - no, better make that incandescent. This had made it all the harder to swallow when his life had been placed so shockingly at risk. And maybe, that was why Charlie didn't get it. Couldn't understand what had made him so angry. The thought of losing his brother now . . . of all those achievements sailing off down the Swannee . . . Don took a large swallow of bourbon.

_It just didn't bear thinking about. _

He'd said things – they'd both said things. Angry words, in the heat of the moment. So, on the surface, they'd papered over the cracks, but the walls were weak and fractured underneath.

He tried so hard to do the right thing. He'd been trying for what seemed like forever. But he was tired, so fucking tired of it. Right now, he was running on empty.

_So, yeah, it looked like he was destined to be alone._

For tonight, and for the long-term future. _Uncle Don - the eternal bachelor,_ he toasted himself, wryly. _The consumate career man, married to the FBI._ Maybe he should just get used to it, and stop struggling against the tide? Besides, the way he was feeling, could be it was the easier option. Sometimes the quiet solace of being alone was preferable to anything else. He needed to pander to his demons, and the thought of Pasadena made him shudder. Too much sympathy and too many questions - the last thing he wanted was company. He hated their need to include him, and the pity he saw in their eyes.

_Poor Don. _

_Did you hear about Donnie? _

_His love-life took another nose-dive. We'll all make an extra effort to be nice to him, to make him realise he's loved and among friends. Just don't mention the relationship word, because it flushed down the toilet again. _

He wondered what Liz was doing right now. Where she was, and who she was with. He hadn't heard any rumours at the office – but then again, they probably wouldn't reach his ears. He'd take a bet she was wearing the killer red dress, the one with the little shoe-string shoulder straps. It was vibrant, a brilliant scarlet, and she looked pretty fantastic in it.

_It had a zip at the back,_ he remembered.

It had always been a favourite of his.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture her. In his dreams, she always wore her hair down. It tumbled over her shoulders, in a cascade of black silk, like a waterfall against her honey skin. He loved to run his hands through the weighty mass, as he slowly undid it, pin by pin.

_Whoa – time to put a stop to this line of thought._ He was torturing himself again.

He'd thought for a while, they might make it. Hoped, yeah, _really hoped,_ they'd stand a chance. He'd even entertained some dreams about the future, before fate had turned the screws and damped them down. From the start, Liz had been quite blunt with him. He'd laboured under no illusions. She'd been very clear about their relationship, and the fact that his past was an issue. She'd listened to the talk, and heard all the rumours, but it was obvious they'd played on her mind.

And he'd always known how ambitious she was. Her career was extremely important. One of the reasons she'd disliked going public was because of the office gossip. How she'd hated the whole nepotistic thing of being thought of as the boss's girlfriend. For a while, they'd let it run and had some fun with it. The fact of it being clandestine, it had made it kind of wild and kinky. The affair had been their dirty, little secret, before the truth had inevitably spilled out.

Don took a swallow of bourbon and closed his eyes. He leaned his head back against the sofa. The way this latest case had ended?

Maybe after today, she was right.

_Hell, every woman he ever went out with? _

They either died, or ran screaming for the hills.

They were back again. The ghosts were back, jostling and crowding in on him. Some of them pointed their fingers, their faces sharp and accusing. There was no point hoping they'd vanish just yet, he could even see them with his eyes shut. He knew of old, they were here to torment him. They would go in their own, sweet time.

He only prayed he would get _some_ sleep tonight. It was the start of Hanukkah tomorrow. Hard to believe, in so many ways; the beginning of the Festival of Lights. _Hanukkah - his heart clenched all over again._ His mother had loved this time of year. She'd always decorated the house, and lit the candles on the menorah. The Craftsman had been warm with firelight and redolent with the scent of cinnamon. Funny - for a secular family, it was the one festival she insisted on keeping. _In-fact,_ his pain was amplified, _she'd been entranced by the holiday season._ On several occasions, he recalled, she'd even wanted a Christmas tree.

_Something for everyone,_ she'd said; _a magical time of year._

A time of new hope and of giving thanks. Dad and Charlie were throwing a party.

A party. It was funny ironic. He'd never felt less like being sociable in his life. He knew he would turn up and act normal. It was the least he could do in her memory. He would tough it out along with the best of them, and pretend that everything was all right; look on it as a test of his endurance, until he could reasonably call it a night.

_He couldn't go on like this anymore._

Couldn't carry on for much longer.

There was no escaping the cold, hard facts, he was obliged to do some serious thinking. By the time the Christmas holiday was over, he had some difficult choices to make. Whichever way around he looked at it, dad and Charlie no longer needed him. They'd picked up the threads of their lives and moved on, in the transitional wake of mom's death.

And he was happy for them – he really was. It was as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He was no longer required to support anyone. It gave him a sense of liberation. At last, after a period of quite a long time, he was free to take a frank look at himself.

For a while, it seemed like he could make it work. He'd felt happier, more settled – _who was he kidding?_

For a while, he'd thought he had found his niche.

_Maybe it was time to move on?_

The tide just kept dragging him deeper and deeper, down into the blackness of the ocean. However much he struggled against it, he was caught in the undertow. He was sucked dry, like there was nothing left inside. Almost empty, like the bottle beside him. There was just no getting away from it - he was trapped in an outsized rut. The more he fought, the more he tried to battle and claw his way out of it, the more the earth piled in on top of him. The more he slipped back down the sides.

He laughed, quietly, drunk on bourbon and bitterness. Options. There were always options. They called to him with a siren's song, some of them dark and invidious. There was nothing he hadn't considered, late at night, when he took off his gun. And, on occasion, it was tempting, _oh, so tempting,_ to take the easy way out. To put an end to this black hole of misery. Just to tighten his finger on the trigger, and end it all in the space of a second. Nothing too painful, and no going back. That was the beauty of a gun.

_Not for him. _

That opt out was not for him. Don shook himself away from the shadows. It was only for the lost and the desolate. For people who'd become so wounded and wretched, they could no longer think of anyone else. In the end, no matter how goddamned awful he felt, he knew he wasn't one of them. The protector thing was too well drummed into him. He couldn't do it to Charlie and dad.

No – his future didn't lie along that route. It was the road not taken.

_Maybe it was time to move on?_

To see what lay ahead through the woods.

At last – _long last_ – he was drifting. He shifted down a little on the sofa. The whisky was working its insidious magic, and stealing through to weary muscles and bones. He closed his eyes and tried to shut out the faces. Closed his mind to banish all the ghosts. If Washington relaxed the terror alert, then tomorrow, he would look out some numbers. He was owed a couple of favours, and he could make a few long-distance calls. Whichever way around he examined it, this state of affairs could not go on.

But right now, he was tired. He was so damned tired.

_He prayed things would seem brighter in the morning. _

_**TBC**_


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

**_Thank you again for the wonderful reviews - from now on, all the action's in real time. _**

**_Patty - this chapter's for you :)_**

**_Lisa._**

* * *

**Benedictus**

_In the tender compassion of our God _

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us, _

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet into the way of peace. _

From the **Benedictus Song of Zechariah, The Gospel of Luke**

* * *

**Part Three**

_**Oasis Towers Building – Los Angeles**_

_**Now . . .**__** .**_

If this was someone's idea of a joke, then newsflash, he really wasn't laughing. There was nothing remotely funny about it, in-fact, the whole thing kind of sucked. So, he'd wanted to get out of dad's party, but this was not quite what he'd had in mind. As excuses went, on a scale of one to ten, this was more than a little bit extreme.

It was dark, but dark in a strange kind of way. The air was dense and grey, not black. It took him several seconds to realise it was filled with a thick, choking dust.

_Oh God._

There was something hard pressing into his face. Felt like wood – no, make that a piece of rubble. It was nothing – _nothing_ in comparison to the weight crushing down on his back.

_Shit – but that sour mash was something._

Maybe, he should have held back some.

Either that, or finished off the whole bottle, and pulled the curtains down on his dreams.

There was a rustling, no, a crackling sound in his head. For some reason, his ears were hurting. The noise was persistent and annoying, but he was too zoned out to try and brush it away. He had the feeling something was off here. _Like as in seriously hinky_. Okay, the word might not be in any dictionary, but just ask any good Fed what it means.

_Not the sour mash._ It wasn't the whisky. His brain was slotting in pieces like a jigsaw. There was a terror alert, he'd been running. A weird, whooshing sound in his head.

It was then he remembered the princess.

A little, fair-haired girl, with ribbons. Cute as a button, pretty as a picture. Turned-up nose and big blue eyes . . . _but hadn't they already found her dead?_

He didn't know. His head was pounding. And besides, it was all too confusing. He needed a minute - just a minute or two, to recover and try to think.

Couldn't stay here.

He couldn't just lie here all day. Things to do, he had responsibilities. It was no good closing his eyes again, and seeking refuge in the comfort of oblivion. The darkness was very seductive right now. It wrapped gentle arms around him. It was tempting – so tempting to succumb to its embrace and sink back down into the void.

When he woke up again, things were clearer. Unfortunately, so was the pain. It sliced up in a curve around his torso, like the burn from a red hot blade. A scimitar – should be a scimitar. _Far more appropriate,_ he thought, remembering. More exotic, full of eastern promise, and shaped like a crescent moon.

All things considered, he would take the trade-off. A little pain in exchange for his faculties. It was better than floating gently in la-la land. Now, at least, he had a semblance of control.

_What the hell, he was such a liar._

A little pain didn't begin to do it justice.

As for the other, just who was he kidding? He wasn't even in command of himself.

_Think._ He had to think about this. To rearrange all the facts in his head. It was no good lying here feeling sorry for himself, he had to work out a plan of action. It was obvious the delivery truck had exploded - even_ his_ foggy brain could figure out that one. Those bastards must have pushed the button, and just his luck, he'd been caught in the blast. There was a crumb of consolation in all of this, not much, but it was something to hold on to. _Thank God, he'd ordered his team out of the building._ They should have made it to safety in time.

He'd been the only one left inside the tower block, _the only one,_ as far as he knew.

On the other hand, he was totally in the dark; literally, as well as symbolically. The explosion might have levelled the entire block, it could be Armageddon out there. Don felt his gut clench in sudden fear. The image was not a happy one. Even if the building remained standing, then the fabric would be terminally unsound. There was still time for the foundations to crumble and bring the massive structure crashing down on top of him.

_How long since the detonation?_

Could be hours, or a matter of minutes.

He had to assume they knew he was missing. Had to assume they knew he was here. It would be useful if he gave them a helping hand – if he actually gathered some of his wits.

By now, he knew the buzzing was his earpiece. Either that, or tinnitus from shattered ear drums. The comm. system had crashed right before the explosion, but with any luck, he still had his cell phone.

Still having it, and reaching it, were two separate things. Fate could be cruel, as he quickly discovered. Just the act of stretching his free hand to his belt – _who knew moving could be such a bitch?_

The weight on his back?

It was a concrete strut. It lay across him diagonally. He supposed he should be thankful for small mercies – at least it hadn't fallen on his head.

_It was there._ His cell was still clipped to his belt. Don could hardly believe it. After everything – the way his luck had run lately, for once, providence was working on his side. He made a noise that sounded like a sob of relief, and sent up a silent prayer. _Thank the lord, or whoever was watching over him. The damned thing was still there._ He closed his fingers gratefully around it, and took a deep breath of thick, choking air. For a second, the clip hitched on the edge of his belt, and he almost didn't have the strength to work it free.

_Come on, Eppes, don't be pathetic. _

_You don't reach for the cell - t__hen you die. _

Simple - it was all very simple, but it was moving – the moving that did it. It hurt him even more than the breathing, and lord knows, that was bad enough. He lay still and waited, tightly clutching his cell, as the scimitar blade sliced through his belly. His face was damp with something, he supposed it was blood; then he realised it was tears of pain.

_Stay awake, Eppes – you have to stay awake_.

The words droned round and around in his head, like a litany or a desperate petition. His hands were shaking as though he'd aged a few decades, but eventually, he turned on the cell. The screen flickered into immediate life, lighting up with a greenish glow.

_Okay _– suddenly, his limbs turned to water. He felt weak with a rush of relief. He might not be able to get a signal, but at least the phone was still working. They'd stand a far better chance of tracing him now the GPS tracker was switched on.

_If anyone was still out there, of course_.

And maybe they weren't even looking. It wasn't like he'd be a priority - just a small part of the terrible carnage.

He would have laughed, if he could, except the joke was on him, which made it a whole lot less funny. The fates were having their wicked way with him. A great cosmic gag at his expense. The last few weeks, all he'd wanted was oblivion. Now, he had it, and it scared the hell out of him. He'd been working extra shifts like a man-possessed – turning down any social invitations. _Anything and everything,_ big or small_,_ to steer well clear of his personal problems. The longer he avoided his troubles, then the less time he had to face them. No chance to kick back, no opportunity to think . . .

Maybe then, he could outrun his demons.

_What the fuck was wrong with him?_

Truth was, it hadn't been helping. None of it – zero - _nada -_ he was still a walking mass of pain. He'd been veering on the edge of depression, didn't have to be a genius to see it. The extra work wasn't the answer, and his head remained the same fucked-up mess. The bourbon helped ease some of the torment, but he knew it was a dangerous pit-prop. He'd seen his fair share of functioning alcoholics, and he didn't want to slide down that route. Good, old reliable, _Jack._ His friend, but an insidious enemy. At the end of the day, it was always there, waiting to welcome him home again.

_In the silent apartment, like a faithful dog, to welcome him home once again._

And then, he remembered, _oh God, he remembered_. In an excoriating blaze of radiance. The strike of the axe was white lightning, like someone cleft through a log in his brain. He'd been running . . . running from everything . . . trying to out-sprint the pain.

But this time, _this time,_ he hadn't been alone.

_Dear God, there had been a baby. _

He remembered holding her tight to his chest. _Had the explosion ripped her away from him?_ A sensation of flying – he'd been thrown through the air – a good ten, fifteen feet, maybe more.

A wave of bile banked up inside him. He felt sick right through to his stomach.

_A baby – there'd been a baby girl - how the hell could he forget?_

The cell phone gave off a smidgen of light. It was barely enough for him to see by. He grit his teeth tightly against the pain, and swept it around like a torch. There wasn't much left of the corridor. In-fact, he could hardly make out where he was. He was pinned down by the strut and surrounded by rubble, trapped in a limited pocket of air.

She was scarcely a foot away from him. His heart jumped in relief when he saw her. She was still cocooned in the pink, fuzzy blanket he'd snatched up in haste from her crib. Her big wide eyes watched him solemnly as he stretched across with a shaking hand. He forced his broken body to reach out for her, but both his range and his mobility were limited.

_Couldn't make it – he couldn't make it. _

Beads of sweat broke out on his brow. _Nearly there, just another few inches._ He extended his shoulder, and then swore out loud, as the pain nearly made him pass out.

Don lay panting for a minute, just fighting for breath. _He shouldn't swear in front of the baby._ His fingers curled around the edge of the blanket, and he clung onto it for dear life, and pulled. It was too dark to see much of anything, but miraculously, she didn't seem hurt. The satin softness of her face was unbroken, and then she opened her mouth and cooed.

His ears rang and throbbed from the force of the blast. _God only knew, what it had done to hers._ He ran the tip of his finger down each side of her neck, but there was no trace of any blood. She wore a hat that resembled a beanie and the blanket had been pulled up over her head. He remembered he'd cradled her close to her chest; perhaps his bulk had protected her small body?

He was feeling a little jaded on the miracle-front. It felt like he'd maxxed out his credit. He could hardly believe it was possible she'd escaped the explosion unhurt.

"Hey, baby?"

He barely croaked out a whisper, and his voice sounded awful, like shit. Hardly surprising, under the circumstances, especially when his mouth was full of dust and grit.

She didn't answer him, of course, but then again, what did he know about it? He wasn't really an expert on baby-talk, but it _did_ seem as though she responded. She lay there, and watched him closely, making cute little sounds in her throat. He reached out with a shaking hand, and pulled the blanket lightly over her chin. It wasn't much, but he had to do something to protect her from the thick clouds of cement dust.

"Are you okay, Sweetie? I really hope you're okay?"

He found it hard to believe she was uninjured, but it looked as though his longed-for miracle had happened. He acknowledged it was better late than never. _Or even worse, suppose it hadn't come at all?_ He curved his hand around the back of her head, feeling gently for any trauma. Her skull was so small, and thank God, felt intact. It fitted perfectly into his palm. Her hair was fine and soft, like thistledown, or the velvet feathers on a pigeon's breast. He swallowed hard, his fingers lingering on the downy nape of her neck.

_What were the fucking odds on this?_

The gods had granted him a benediction.

_On something so tiny and precious, coming out of this carnage unscathed? _

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "but I don't know your name. I guess, for now, we'll just stick with Sweetie. You're gonna have to excuse me for a second, here, while I see if I can make a call."

Sweetie gurgled and waved her fat arms in the air. Another good sign, she had a full range of movement. Don tried to ignore the sharp ache in his belly and wished he could say the same.

_Concentrate, Eppes._

He focused, and fought hard to centre himself. It was easier said than done_. _He was suffering all the tell-tale symptoms of shock and he wondered what the hell was wrong. _Prioritise, he knew he had to prioritise._ He was responsible for the welfare of this baby. Didn't do any good to start imagining stuff, and it was a waste of time worrying about his injuries. He suspected he'd have ample opportunity, once they hauled his sorry ass out of here. Oh yeah, and plenty of pleasant prospects to look forward to, all resembling the long and painful kind.

_If they hauled his ass out of here. _

The disquieting thought came to him unbidden; they had to find them first to do any kind of hauling. God knows what damage the explosion had done; it must resemble a wasteland out there. If the engineers had been right about the placing of the truck, then the ground floor would have collapsed in on itself. He had a sudden, visual image, of a huge, concrete house of cards.

They were buried somewhere in the middle of it all, but where_ it_ was, was anyone's guess. Hidden away beneath a dangerous tangle of piping, fallen support struts, and glass. He knew there would be leaking water mains, and live electrical cabling. Sunken pits, and deadly craters full of noxious fumes, caused by the force of the blast.

_Strike two on the miracle front._

It was a marvel they hadn't both been killed instantly. As it was, he wondered how long they'd survive, trapped inside their tiny pocket of air.

It was a void space, not an air pocket. Don smiled, wryly, in the semi-darkness. He'd sat in on enough action committees to get the terminology right. He forced himself to face up to things. It was better to be realistic. If he was being brutally honest, then their chances were not looking good. Even if he managed to call for help, it would be hours before they could start searching. A long time before the experts outside would declare the building safe to approach.

_Talk about a million to one. _

The odds were narrowing with every minute that passed. Receding and getting slimmer. He knew then, there was very little hope of the rescue crews reaching them in time. He felt sick again, sick to his stomach. And it wasn't just from the pain of his injuries. Not so much for him – it was a peril of the job – but for the tiny girl at his side.

This was why he _really_ didn't get it. The modern form of terrorist mentality. He tried to live by the basic tenet that each human life was sacrosanct. According to the laws of Judaism, life was a gift to be cherished. It was something to be considered with reverence, to be nurtured, and treated with respect.

Especially, and most particularly, the precious life of a child.

And most of the time, he'd stuck with that precept; had held on tight to the principle. Even now, it still gave him the odd sleepless night, if he was forced to take the life of a perp. There were some notable exceptions, of course. What the hell, weren't there always?

At the end of the day, he was human. He'd walked on the darker side.

There were plenty of scumbags on the loose out there, with little or no sense of morality. The sicko's, the perverts, the whack-jobs, and he didn't even want to think of Crystal Hoyle. Maybe that was part of the trouble – the Hoyle case had been a fiery catalyst. He'd turned into an avenging vigilante and his motives had been fucked to hell.

_Hypocrite. _

It brought him up short.

_Who the hell was he to preach such morality?_

He'd been on a downward trail of self-destruction for the best part of the last three months. The booze and the lone-wolf lifestyle; working all the hours under the sun. Sleeping late to avoid facing his depression. The sicko, fantasy games with his gun.

And then, there was his little stunt earlier. The one before he'd been side-tracked at the nursery. If he'd made it as far as the underground parking lot, there was no doubt, he'd have been blown to kingdom come. He saw it all in sharper clarity now - could see what he'd almost done. _Suicide by wilful self-abuse._ It didn't have a very savoury ring to it. Self-combustion by occupational hazard, or death by heroic excuse.

_God, and here he was, feeling all self-righteous, about how morally superior he was?_

And the irony wasn't over yet. There was a good chance it might still happen. He was sliding in and out of reality.

Don knew he was seriously hurt.

So much for ignoring his injuries. There was a damp patch spreading beneath him. He could feel it soaking through his layers of his clothing. It didn't come from a burst water pipe. And copper - a metallic trace of copper - mixed in with the smell of damp concrete. It hung around him like a miasma, concentrated by the stale, choking air. Don had come across that scent before. It was ominous and unmistakable. He'd encountered it all too many times - more often than he cared to remember.

_Oh, yeah, he knew it only too well._

The ferrous-sharp, tang of fresh blood.

_Okay, now for the moment of truth._ It was high time he made that call to Megan. Thank God, she hadn't been with him when this happened. It was a stroke of luck he'd sent her back outside. He'd needed someone he could really depend on to coordinate the evacuation. To liaise with the emergency response teams, and knock some sense into the CIRG and OSHA guys.

He knew she would be doing her best out there. Kicking ass and deflecting the idiots. He was counting on her fighting his corner. To get him and little Sweetie out alive. If anyone could, it would be Megan. _It would be his determined partner._ He unhooked the useless comlink from his ear, and ignored the sudden rush of blood which followed it. Now the annoying crackling was gone, paradoxically, he could hear a little better.

"Come on," his fingers felt useless and clumsy, as he fumbled for caller direct. "Please God," he whispered, like a mantra. "Please God, let there be a signal."

If not for him, then for the baby. For the tiny sweetheart, lying here beside him.

The next few seconds would be the decider.

_The big difference between life and slow death. _

_**TBC**_

* * *

**_CIRG Critcal Incident Response Group ( a division of the FBI)_**

**_OSHA Occupational Safety and Health Administration (for all of us non-American's out there)_**

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Benedictus**

_In the tender compassion of our God _

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us, _

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet into the way of peace. _

From the** _Benedictus,_** Song of Zechariah, The Gospel of Luke

* * *

**Part Four**

_**Eppes House - Pasadena**_

Charlie straightened up, and cocked his head. He regarded the Christmas, stroke Hanukkah tree, carefully, and gave a nod of satisfaction. He tried it out for size from all four corners of the room, taking mental notes with a critical eye. An iridescent sparkle of silver and gold, it shimmered as though sprinkled with fairy-dust. One or two slight adjustments, the odd change in alignment, and there was something very pleasing in its symmetry.

_He just hoped dad wouldn't notice he'd virtually re-arranged the whole tree. _

When he'd first walked into the room, the tree had shrieked at him desperately for help. He'd tried his best to ignore it, but in the end, it had driven him nuts. The entire thing had been crazily out of balance, and simply begging for a little fine-tuning. Dad's idea of festive decoration left an awful lot to be desired.

_In-fact,_ Charlie smiled, as he gave it some thought; _it was based on the principle of chaos theory. _

A strip of tinsel here, a glass bauble there . . .

It was as though he'd been experimenting with a recipe. The odd pinch of spice, an extra sprinkle of herbs, and the essential balance of the dish was lost. There was no real attention to a sense of poise or anything resembling proportion.

Truth was, if he was being honest, the tree had lurched like a drunken sailor. It was unstable, and wretchedly lop-sided, most unquestionably out of synch. And if he was sticking with the nautical theme, the asymmetry made him feel seasick. As though he'd stepped off the comfort and stability of dry land, onto the right-angled deck of a ship. He wasn't a great sailor at the best of times – Charlie gave a slight shudder at the memory. He liked things to be firm and on the level. The poor tree didn't stand a chance.

"Better now?"

Amita stepped in, through the doorway. Her eyes were twinkling, and she was definitely laughing at him. Charlie had the grace to blush a little, he knew she really didn't mean the tree. There was nothing wrong with a little proportion; he preferred things on logical lines. _And besides, it wasn't exactly a big secret that Don was the obsessive in this family. _

"It's an awful lot better, thank you." He said, primly, ignoring her gentle censure.

"Good," she sneaked her arms around his waist from behind, and rested her head on his shoulder. "It's beautiful, very symmetrical, but you can bet your life your dad's bound to notice."

"You know, my mom always wanted a Christmas tree," he leaned back into her soft embrace, and ignored the last part of her comment. She smelled of bergamot and sunkissed skin, and the combination was nice. "I don't know why we never had one. Oh, sure, we'd always decorate the house for Hanukkah, but we never got around to a tree."

"It might have been because of her background. Maybe it never really seemed right?"

"Maybe," Charlie echoed. He stared across at the sparkling tree with regret. "Although, both she and dad were always pretty secular. Our ethnicity was proudly acknowledged, but as a family, we were never that religious. She would light the candles on the menorah, but that was about as far as it went." He shrugged his shoulders, and looked vaguely unhappy. "Other things got in the way, I guess."

"Even so," Amita's breath was warm on his neck, "she must have grown up with a certain code of beliefs, and they can be pretty hard to put behind you."

"Hey," he spun her around in his arms. "I hope you're not still worried about your family? I thought they were totally resigned to the fact that you've fallen for your dashing Math Professor?"

"Dashing?" She was laughing again. She flirted with him through her eyelashes. "Adorable maybe, and quirkily eccentric, but dashing – now that sounds more like Don."

Charlie frowned, and the mood was spoiled. He didn't really want to think about his brother. The trouble was, he'd been obsessing about Don almost constantly for the last few weeks.

_Uh-oh – there it was – the dreaded 'O' word again._

So okay, maybe not obsessing. It was weird and a little spooky. It was more appropriate to say he'd been worrying - maybe _obsessing_ was too strong a word. Even worrying was wrong, Charlie crinkled his brow, the words themselves were merely semantics. Perhaps one could substitute brooding, or even downright pissed-off?

_On second thoughts, better make that preoccupied – it sounded far more adult. _

"I take it he still hasn't called you, and I'm guessing you haven't called him either? Is this still about that reporter – what was her name, Bonnie Parks?" Amita sighed, and reached for one of his curls, wrapping it around her fingertip. "Charlie, I think you both made your point. Don't you think it's gone on long enough?"

"Don't."

He pushed none-too-gently away from her, and began to pace up and down the room. In the depths of his heart, he knew she was right, but the subject wasn't open to debate. However much he might love Amita, _and he was beginning to believe at last, he really did,_ there were still some no-go areas, and his relationship with Don was almost sacrosanct. It was private and complicated, and reached deep down into his psyche. Everything was too shaky, too fragile. Even now, after all this time.

_Why did it all have to be so difficult? _

He sighed, and raked his hand through his hair. He was tired and fed up of feeling guilty. It was unfair of Don to make him feel bad about this, he'd had enough of always carrying the can. Their childhood years had revolved around him. He could accept that now, with hindsight. _No,_ he supposed, _it hadn't been fair,_ but at the time, he'd been too young to really notice. Back then, the family spot-light shone brightly on him. It had focused on his gifts and education. In many ways, not unlike the Christmas tree, unbalanced and distinctly lop-sided. God, how those years seemed a lifetime ago, by rights, they should be over and done with. He'd assumed they'd moved on - grown away from the past - and buried it's ghosts securely behind them.

He was no longer, in Don's own, hurtful words, a Charlie-sized, _black hole._

He shook his head. How those words still stung. He decided then and there, he was finished with it. He knew he could be arrogant, sometimes a little self-consumed, but he was done apologising for his genius.

And as for their fallout - _if you could call it that - _it was more like a cessation of relationships. A scrupulously, polite avoidance, of awkward subjects and more pertinently, each other. If he was honest, the Bonnie Parks thing had been an incident just waiting to happen. It had been building up for quite a while now – he'd sensed Don was drifting away.

He could see the hurt in Amita's eyes, and knew he owed her some form of explanation. If she was going to be a long-term part of his life, then he had no right to keep her in the dark.

"It was never really about Bonnie Parks. Not if I'm being honest. What happened as a result of that case? I guess you could say it was the final straw, it just brought everything to a head."

"Brought what to a head? I don't understand," she looked at him with exasperation. "For someone who's supposed to be a genius, you're not being very succinct."

"Don and I - me and Don. This thing, our excuse for a relationship. It feels like I've been chasing him all of my life, like some kind of pathetic puppy. Just waiting for a kind word, a pat on the head . . . far too eager for the odd scrap of bone."

"Charlie, no, I'm sure Don doesn't see it that way. He's just a typical older brother. I think you're being a little too hard on him. On him, and especially yourself."

"No, you're wrong, you couldn't be more wrong." Charlie ground out with impatience. "With respect, you know nothing about it. You have no idea what it was like to be me, you couldn't possibly begin to guess. My childhood, the whole being a genius thing - you weren't there when we were growing up."

"No, I wasn't," she paused, and scanned his face. She was surprised by his unexpected vehemence, "but I'm here now, so why don't you tell me? You know I'm willing to listen, so why don't you try and explain?"

"He's always been so closed off, so distant - " Charlie couldn't stop the words tumbling out of his mouth, and he realised he was sounding petulant, but he had his foot firmly on the gas now; there was no way he wanted to ease up."Sometimes, so damned condescending. The times he_ has_ let me into his life, it's always been on his terms."

"It sounds like you're still angry at some of the things he said to you. He was worried at the time, Charlie, we all were. You need to cut Don a little more slack. Someone was firing a gun at you; they rear-ended your car off the road."

"Yes, they did," Charlie scowled, and tapped his forehead, "and I survived by applying my intelligence. Something I've been doing, very successfully for Don, on and off, for the last four years. In-spite of my commitments, all my writing and research, to say nothing of my duties at CalSci."

"Do you begrudge it?"

"No," he stopped, very abruptly, and looked at her with some confusion. "No, I don't. Of course, I don't begrudge it."

"It sounds like you do," she was merciless. "It sounds to me, as though you think Don's in your debt. As though he should be a whole lot more grateful."

"More grateful," he snorted. "That'll be the day. I'm lucky if I get a quick thanks. More often than not, I don't even get that, he's just cranky and ultra pissed off with me. As though I've crossed an invisible boundary. Makes me feel like I'm treading on his toes."

"Then you need to ask why it's important, and why you still want to do it. What makes you continue consulting for Don, if he's ungrateful and so unappreciative?"

The room was resonant with silence, and Charlie stared back at her in shock. His face worked through a whole range of expressions, as he was forced to confront what she'd just said. _It wasn't so much what she'd just said, _he examined his own words honestly. It wasn't a very pretty picture. He didn't much like what he saw.

It all boiled down to one essential fact - what the hell had he been trying to prove?

"He isn't," he eventually answered her, his voice muted with self-realisation. "He really isn't ungrateful at all. You, on the other hand, are scarily smart. In-fact, you're _way_ too clever. You're saying I've become too arrogant. That lately, I've been enjoying it a little too much, the fact, that sometimes, Don _needs _me."

"Who wouldn't? God, Charlie - " her face softened into a smile. She took his hand, and shook her head at him. "It's only natural to want to be needed. Even though you maybe a genius, you _do_ know you're only human, right?"

"Through our childhood, he always looked out for me." Charlie stared at her in distraction. "I remember the fights and detentions, he'd be in trouble a lot of the time. It wasn't easy, and school was hard. It was the geek thing – the other kids didn't get it. I felt like a fish out of water, but Don was always there, eagle-eyed."

"I understand, my poor, little geek boy," she led him across to the sofa, as most of the anger drained out of him. "All curls and wide-eyed apprehension, you must have been adorable back then. And Don's always been such an alpha male, only natural he should try and protect you."

"I suppose," Charlie nodded his head. "You might find it hard to understand this, but there were times when I used to resent it. I was a million times more intelligent than those idiots, and yet, still, I was totally at their mercy. If it hadn't been for Don, and the fact he was my brother, things would have been a whole lot worse."

"But that's not Don's fault?"

"No, it wasn't Don's fault." Charlie sighed. "It was _never_ Don's fault. It's hard to really explain it. No matter how clever or smart I was, I always felt second best."

"And now, you don't?"

"No, I don't," he said, firmly. He set his jaw, and looked her straight in the eye. "I don't feel second best at all. As a matter of fact, after all this time, I know I'm pretty great at what I do. It's taken me too long to reach this point - to be confident in myself and my abilities - but Don doesn't seem to realise, I'm not his geeky little brother anymore."

"But, Charlie," Amita was troubled, "I think you maybe missing the point. You'll _always_ be Don's little brother, however much he may respect what you do."

"Does that give him the right to be so heavy-handed? To stand there and issue me with orders? I thought you, of all people, would understand how I feel. We're not little kids anymore."

Her body-language spoke volumes, as she got to her feet. She shook her head at him, softly. "I'd better go, before the traffic gets too bad. I still have some shopping to do. I promised your dad I'd give him a hand; help him out with some of the food."

"Amita - " Charlie glanced up at her, and then paused.

"It's all right," she gave him a tiny smile. "It's okay, I understand."

"Do you?" he muttered, as she left through the front door. "I wonder if you really do?"

"Well, _I _don't. I don't understand at all. In-fact, perhaps you'd care to enlighten me?"

He jumped at the sound of Alan's voice. He hadn't even realised dad was there. He must have got back from the grocery store, parked the car, and come in the back way.

"Dad, sorry, I didn't hear you come in. I came home early to get ready for the party."

"For someone who's, quote – '_so great at what he does_' - you have a real knack of stating the obvious," Alan sighed, as he came further into the room. He was frowning, and clearly troubled. After removing his driving glasses, he sat down in the leather reading chair. "Please don't change the subject on my account, it all sounded highly interesting. I think I have a vested concern in this, so don't keep me out of the loop."

"It wasn't really anything important - "

"That's not how it came over to me."

"Amita and I were just talking . . ."

"So I heard. About your brother. About Don."

"Look, dad, I don't know how much you overheard, but know what? It was a private conversation. If I'd realised anyone was listening in, then we would have changed the subject, pretty fast."

"Oh, so now, I'm accused of eavesdropping, because I walk in the back door to my own home. Wow – if I thought this started out as kind of interesting, well, it just keeps getting better and better."

"There's no need to be sarcastic." Charlie glared at him. "I wasn't accusing you of eavesdropping."

"That's good," Alan chose to ignore the jibe, "because I'd hate to think you thought I was a snoop. Charlie - " some of the ire drained out of his voice, and he leaned slightly forward in the chair. "You want to tell me what's _really_ going on, I hate to hear you say those things about your brother."

"It's not . . . I wasn't . . ."

He couldn't believe he was stammering. Charlie wrung his hands together. So much for his righteous anger. _Hell, he sounded like a naughty kid._ In a way, it was almost funny – just like the geek-boy he'd described to Amita. It was as though he'd stepped back through the layers in time, and turned into a school-boy again. It was ironic, that in a mere fraction of a second, dad's gimlet eye could reduce him to this.

He took a breath, and tried to maintain his dignity. This was more than a little unfair. He hadn't really been criticising Don, just trying to explain some of his resentment. There was no doubt in his mind, he was justified. Don had no right to vent on him. On the other hand, as Amita had pointed out, maybe he _was_ being too harsh.

He _had_ jeopardised his own safety.

He could have been, and nearly _had _been killed, while driving back to CalSci that day.

He would never forget the look on Don's face, or the tightly-controlled strain in his voice. On the other hand, they _were_ both adults now. He was entitled to run his own life.

"He's in charge, you know?" Dad was talking again. He appeared remarkably off-hand. In-fact, considering the amount of tension in the room just now, he sounded downright conversational. "Whenever you do any consulting work for his team, technically, he's in charge of you."

"I'm not a member of the FBI, dad," he pointed out, a little pompously. "I'm an independent consultant. I work on a voluntary basis, even though I get paid."

"Okay, you want to talk semantics? To be blunt, that's a load of bullshit, and you know it. Over the course of any investigation, Don's responsible for the safety of his team. It doesn't matter if you're a Fed or not. You're still there under his aegis. If anything, _God forbid,_ goes wrong, then ultimately, he carries the can."

"Dad - "

"Don't '_dad_' me, and don't stop me, because I'm on a role." Alan regarded him with exasperation. "As a matter of fact, don't anything me, because I've only just got started. I've tried to keep my nose of this business, because I figured it was between you and Don, but I don't think you're seeing the whole picture here. I think you only see your own point of view."

"Since when did you ever stay out of things?"

To his horror, he couldn't help it. The words just kind of flew out of him. The very last thing he wanted was a lecture; especially one on his feelings for Don. He was nowhere near the right frame of mind. His emotions, how he saw things, that was his affair. Charlie was not in the mood to confront them. He wished dad would leave well alone.

"Fine," Alan huffed, and got back to his feet. "Message received, loud and clear. Maybe you should try listening too - it's a pity _you_ don't want to hear it. There are two sides to each story, Charlie, before you start feeling hard done by. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll get back to the kitchen. I have the catering to do for _your_ Hanukkah party."

"Dad," Charlie stood in front of him. "Dad, please stay, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry. This is hard . . . kind of a sore subject. I didn't want to bring it up in the first place. I really wish you hadn't overheard."

For a few seconds, they stood locked within a battle of wills, the stubborn gene warring for dominance. It boiled back down to the irresistible force, and the good, old immovable object. Except that nothing was really immovable, and in the end, something always had to give.

Alan sighed, and sat back down in his chair. "But I did - I did overhear you. And in a way, it could be a blessing, if it helps to clear some of the air."

"I guess Don and I are the one's who should be talking," Charlie had the grace to be honest. "We've been walking on eggshells around each other, for too long, and avoiding the major issue."

"The last few weeks haven't been easy." Alan was blunt. "I've been worried about the both of you."

"I'm sorry, I should have realised you'd notice." Charlie sighed. "I just wish I knew what to do."

"You know, your brother thinks he's the strong and silent type." Alan chose his words very carefully. "I think your mother and I were partially responsible. God knows, we weren't always there for him, somehow we never seemed to have the time. We loved him so much – there was no shadow of a doubt – I really hope and pray he knows that. But he was always so strong and independent. _So damned sure his way was best."_

"Still is," Charlie murmured, in agreement. "He hasn't changed much, over the years."

"On the whole, it was easier to leave him be. To step backwards, and let him get on with it. Nine times out of ten, it worked out okay, and never seemed to create any issues. Not only did he get on with his own affairs, but he was fiercely protective of yours."

"That's an understatement," Charlie was dry. They shared a look of complete understanding. "Bossy doesn't begin to cut it. Over-bearing and pretty damned dominant, but always right there when I needed him."

Alan chuckled, and then gave a heavy sigh. "That was Donnie, he was always your guardian. He took his responsibilities very seriously. So resolute and self-sufficient; sometimes, I think we took that strength for granted."

"I'm sure Don would disagree with you."

Charlie shook his head in quick denial. He was surprised by the distress in Alan's voice. Dad was rarely so brutally open, or self-critical of the past. In fact, when you got right down to it, the entire speech took some digesting. He wished he hadn't opened up this particular can of worms.

"You know," he tried to speak lightly. "I overheard him talking to David. _He said,_ and by the way, I totally agree; _we had the best parents in the world."_

"He was probably talking about my cooking," Alan still sounded a little husky. He cleared his throat before continuing, and carefully measured his words. "I suppose that what I'm saying is, Don's always been the protector. It's in his nature, part of who he is. Unshakeable, and too deeply ingrained. Once he's accepted that responsibility, let's say his job, his team or his family, then the weight rests heavy on his shoulders. Sometimes a weight can turn into a burden. I often worry it will wear him down."

_Would it?_

Would it wear him down?

Not Don, he was as strong as a mule. Just as sturdy and stubborn. If there was one little word that really summed up his brother, then Charlie would have to choose 'tough.'

He thought back over the last few months, and regarded them more objectively. He recalled some of the little nuances, and the lines of strain around Don's eyes. The cords of tension he carried in his shoulders, and the slight but still noticeable weight loss. Don would never admit there was a problem.

Was he coping, or was he just over-worked?

Had anybody even thought to ask him?

A few, very gruelling cases, and the break-up with Liz . . . Charlie felt a sudden stab of fear. And due to the discomfort between the two of them, no access to the sanctuary of the Craftsman. _Before they'd fallen out with each other_ . . . Charlie paused, _no, you couldn't call it that. T__hey hadn't officially fallen out. _Well, not in the strictest sense of the word, there was just a wealth of awkwardness there.

He made a wry face. Semantics again.

Who was he trying to kid here?

The order of words didn't matter. What did, was Don's recent change in habit. In the past, when he was exhausted or particularly stressed, he would always head straight for home.

_How long since Don dropped by for supper at the close of a long, hard day? _

It was high time he talked, _really talked_ to Don. Time to put this situation behind them. He watched Alan reach for the TV controls, and came to a solid decision.

"Don and I need to sort this out."

"You do," Alan nodded, in agreement.

"I'll talk to him tonight, at the party."

"That's good. I'm glad to hear it._ And_ - " Alan raised an eyebrow, " - don't you think I didn't notice the tree."

Charlie was just about to reciprocate, when an item on the TV screen diverted him. Some sickeningly, familiar scenes of destruction, and a plume of thick, black smoke in the sky. They looked at each other uneasily, and Alan flicked up the volume. It was the same story on every channel. There was something major breaking on the news.

They sat there, and stared at each other in shock.

_A big explosion in downtown Los Angeles . . ._

_**TBC**_


	5. Chapter 5

**_Benedictus_**

_In the tender compassion of our God _

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us, _

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet into the way of peace. _

From the **Benedictus Song of Zechariah,** The Gospel of Luke

* * *

**_Part Five_**

It took a long time to locate a signal. He watched as the indicator bars flickered. Just when he was starting to give up hope, he heard a confirmatory trill on the line.

"Don?" She picked up after only one ring. "Can you hear me – where the hell are you?"

_Thank God_ – _oh, thank God._

She was out there.

He was laughing – no, make that crying with relief. It was so good to know she had made it. For a second, he almost dropped the cell as it slipped through his weakened fingers. He caught his breath in short, hard gasps, and struggled with the darkness edging in on him.

"Reeves," it sounded like someone had cut his throat. _Not cut_ – sawn through with a serrated bread knife. There were chips of rust in the back of his mouth, flaking off from the blunted blade. "Trapped . . ."

_Not rust. _

It wasn't rust, he realised, he was lying here, spitting out blood. It wasn't going to help his cause much, if he could only talk in monosyllabic. _Time to try again._ He was filled with self-disgust. He had to fight, if not for him, then for the baby_. _She was his tiny responsibility; right now, she was depending on him._ Come on, Eppes, you pussy, try again._

He concentrated, and gripped the cell tighter. Might be a cliché, but it really was his lifeline. The only hope for him and little Sweetie-Pie. Their precious link with the outside world.

"Don, are you still there, can you hear me? I need you to give me a location." Megan was taut with anxiety. He knew her so well that he could recognise the signs. She was also extremely pissed off.

"Ground floor," his voice worked better this time, but his throbbing ears struggled to hear her. It was like he was swimming underwater, another side-effect of the damned blast. "Corridor between the crèche and the atrium. You okay? Did you all make it? What's going on out there?"

"Everyone made it, apart from you."

She knew he was referring solely to the team. The rest of it went without saying. She didn't mention civilian casualties; the grim estimates of dead and injured. Don closed his eyes. _She didn't have to._ There must be others just like him inside the building. They both knew they'd been working on borrowed time. The warning had come far too late.

"That's good," he felt a rush of relief. It was something – better than nothing. It made his own troubles seem a little easier just knowing his team was alive.

"The CIRG team is liaising with the FEMA guys and the engineers right now, but Don, you're going to have to hang on, in there. Looks like it's going to take a while. They need to verify the tower is safe and secure, before they send the S and R teams inside."

"Is it bad?"

"It's bad," he could picture her face. She didn't pull any punches. "First three storeys are pretty much wrecked, both explosion and fire destruction. Looks like there's been major subsidence damage to the north face of the building."

"A collapse?" Don's throat almost failed him again. Dear God – the thought was appalling. He looked at the baby beside him, and the images made him feel sick.

"They don't know. It's a possibility. They won't let us anywhere near you, until they have a better idea."

"Right."

It _was _right, and he knew it. He'd sat in on the policy meetings. Agreed with the guiding principle not to place extra lives at risk. It was all very well, in theory. He wouldn't mind so much, if it was just him. What hurt was the thought _she_ might not make it - the tiny girl at his side.

"Megan," he was less formal now. "There's a little girl with me – a baby. I'm sorry, I don't have a name. She's unhurt, or at least I think so. It's hard to be all that precise."

"Copy that." It was hard to miss her slight hitch of breath. "I'll let the public liaison people know, and hopefully, they can trace her family. And you, Don? No bullshit, how are you doing? It'll help when they clear us to get to you."

_How was he doing?_

He wasn't doing so well. In–fact, he was doing pretty lousy. But there was no point coming over all dying swan, as things stood now, the question was moot. There was something – one thing – he needed from her. A promise which was suddenly important. He knew that even asking would worry her, but it was vital to him it got done.

"Don?" She was far more urgent now. "Don – I need to know you can still hear me?"

"Yeah," he tried to pull himself together. It was so _not_ cool to pass out on the phone. "Sorry . . ."

"How badly are you hurt?"

The question was blunt, and straight to the point. Demanding – no longer enquiring. He could see her expression on the end of the line; professional, scared to death and pissed off. _She can do this,_ he thought. He knew she could cope. Then: _God, Larry is such an idiot - _

"I've been better." He grimaced, even as he said the words. She deserved a little more honesty. "There's some kind of concrete girder, I banged my head when it fell. We're trapped here, in a pocket of air. I'm losing blood, but it's hard to tell."

"Hold on, do you hear me?"

_Pissed off, was right._ If you ignored the thread of fear, she sounded downright furious. Don managed a smile in the darkness. It was such a typical response from her. _Attagirl!_

"Is that an order?"

"You can bet your bright, shiny badge it is. There's no way I'm going to tell Alan you decided to check out on me."

"Coward," he said, softly. It was easier this way. Much better to keep it light-hearted. And, as a bonus, she had introduced the subject which was fretting him and weighing on his mind. "About that - "

"It's okay," he heard her sigh, as she anticipated his next question. "I can't leave, but I _can _call them in person. Either that, or I send David, but it'll take a while to get out of town. Your choice, Don, it's up to you."

Hobson's choice, there was no choice at all. No question, as far as he was concerned. At least they would hear the bad news in person, and not down the end of a phone line. "Send David, I don't want them driving, and tell him to insist they stay at home. I don't want them within a mile of the place. Nowhere near here at all."

She snorted. "Yeah, right. We'll do what we can."

"No, seriously," he was getting so tired now. "Promise me, its way too dangerous. If the building collapses . . ." the next words caught and stuck in his throat. Either that, or he was spitting up blood again. "Megan, I don't want them around to witness it. Not if I'm still inside."

"Not going to happen," she said, fiercely. "You hear me, it's not going to happen. We'll get you out – both you and the baby. How much time do you have left on your cell?"

"Fully charged."

He thanked his lucky stars. It was amazing, under the circumstances. He must have plugged it in on auto-pilot, last night, before diving into the bottle of Jack.

"That's something," she exhaled, hard in relief. "It's good to know I can talk to you, as long as we still have a signal. We're doing our best to keep on top of it, and stop the lines from becoming too jammed. Listen, Don, I have to go now, but you need to stay in regular touch with me. Time check - it's quater past the hour - I want to hear from you every twenty minutes. I'll keep you informed from this end, and you can keep me up-dated from yours."

_Every twenty minutes, huh?_

At the moment, it didn't feel like he'd last five. He gritted his teeth, and almost groaned out loud, as a new wave of agony washed over him. Whatever damage he'd done must be serious. On the whole, perhaps the dim light was a blessing. At least he couldn't look closely at his injuries, or frighten himself with the gore.

And there _was_ gore; he was in no possible doubt. He could feel it spreading beneath him. Something warm and peculiarly sticky, between his shirt and his Kevlar vest.

Drifting - he was drifting off again. _Stay awake, had to stay awake._ He wasn't going to give into the darkness. _Couldn't leave Sweetie Pie alone down here._

"Don, do you copy?"

"Yeah," he managed to force out the word. _Not bad – he even sounded quite normal. _"The baby, don't forget the baby. Her parents must be going crazy. Megan, you should find them . . . tell them I tried my best. She won't make it down here, all alone."

"No," she said, sharply. "She's not all alone - _she's not alone_ - do you hear me? I'll find out about her mother as soon as I can, but she has you, and that makes her very lucky. Hang tough, promise me you'll stay awake. You need to take care of the baby!"

_Hang tough? _

What the hell was that?

He would have laughed in any other situation. The two words were so . . . _so Rocky Balboa . . ._ and not Megan Reeves at all. They sounded strange and more than incongruous; so surreal coming out of her mouth. On the other hand, he'd revealed just a little too much. Given the game away, in his weakness. He realised there was no point playing the stoic. He was hurt and he was getting worse.

"Sweetie-Pie, her name's Sweetie," he murmured. He hated that he sounded so pathetic. He was slurring his words like a street-corner drunk. Just the way he would have done last night.

He reflected that as usual, Reeves was right. He had to shape up, and pull himself together. He didn't have the luxury of losing it. Not while he had this precious life in his hands. He would lie here and fight to stay awake for her. However long it took them to be rescued.

If the worse happened . . . if the tower collapsed . . . then at least, she would not be alone.

He shivered with shock or something else. Cold fingers tearing the inside of him. A frisson of utter fear and desolation, a lone voice, lost and crying in the dark.

_Not alone. _

Please, dear God, not alone.

Not abandoned, like the other princess. No one had been there, no one had saved her. Her precious life, snuffed out like a light. He remembered the treasured, family photographs. Beautiful, and yet so fragile. Those memories were all they had left of her now. Her life stolen, and_ he_ had failed her.

_Not this child._ Not _this_ little princess. It was not going to happen this time. Don placed his lips gently against the baby's soft hair. He made a vow, right then and there.

"I'm okay – _we're okay – _just hurry up_._" Stronger, his voice was much stronger. "Take care of dad and Charlie for me. Get going, I'll speak to you soon."

"Twenty minutes, no longer, do you hear me? Stay awake, don't you dare go to sleep on me."

"Right."

He cut the call abruptly, and stared down at the dimly lit phone. The sudden silence was almost shocking, and twenty minutes stretched ahead like a millennia. He knew it was stupid, but now Megan had gone, he felt marooned and inexorably isolated.

There was no point dwelling on his long list of woes. Don frowned, and tried to think things over. To concentrate on something – _anything_. He had to keep his mind off his troubles.

_To fight and not give into the pain. _

He thought back to early this morning, when the warning had first come into the offices. He'd been bad-tempered and pumped full of Tylenol, in an effort to hold his headache at bay. Talk about your miracle cures – the bomb alert was the worse kind of wake-up call. It had acted like a douche of cold water, and forced any lingering trace of bourbon away.

Was there anything he could have done better?

_God, had he failed, had he missed anything? _

No - or at least, he didn't think he had. He thanked the lord for small mercies. He was too damned, stiff-necked and stubborn for that, shades of obsessive/compulsive. Hell, sometimes the devils who drove him were responsible for saving his life.

Don knew he'd followed protocol exactly. He'd done everything precisely by the book. Despite the fact he'd been sunk in a morass of self-pity and not playing at the top of his game. When he got out of this – _if he got out of this _– it was time to do some serious thinking. He had to make some hard decisions about his future in this game.

To either shape up, or consider shipping out.

_He would not be a liability to his team. _

The whole attack had been designed meticulously; for maximum impact and publicity. Whichever group was behind this, had known exactly what they were doing. It was well-organised and well-funded - clearly the work of an organised cell. As for the date, the first day of Hanukkah. _Coincidence?_ If he could, Don would have snorted. It was significant, a major Jewish festival. The kind of symbol these terrorists would choose.

Geographically, in the heart of downtown LA – Oasis Towers made a perfect target. The subsequent pandemonium and disaster, would grind the entire city to a halt. Don closed his eyes or a second, and tried to picture the carnage. Only in his worse nightmares . . . could he imagine what it was like out there. Fear and a sickening sense of panic. The scenes of chaos and utter devastation. TV crews and frantic relatives, a hundred minor officials. CIRG Agents and Search and Rescue guys, all clamouring to make their voices heard.

Yet in the middle of all the confusion, Megan had thrown him a lifebelt. One he didn't plan on letting go of, not in this lifetime, or anytime soon. If anyone could handle this, she could. He trusted her to reel him back in.

_What the hell, he should be looking on the bright side._

At least they knew somebody was down here, and eventually, the rescue teams would get to them. All _he _had to do, was be patient, take care of Sweetie, and bide his time. He could imagine the terrible frustration of those standing around helpless outside. The S and R guys were prepared for this, they were highly skilled and courageous. Don knew any delay would grate on them - it would inevitably cost them precious lives. They'd be badgering the engineers to give them the all clear, so they could get stuck in, and do what they'd been trained for.

As comfort went, it was something.

_A small grain, albeit a cold one. _

Meanwhile, he couldn't just lie here. There must be something he could do to make things better. To say he was uncomfortable was a gross understatement. It would help if he was a little more mobile. He took a breath and hunched the muscles in his shoulders, trying to gain some purchase with his elbows. By the time he'd made a clear six inches, the dust clouds had risen again.

_Okay, maybe this wasn't such a great idea._

He pulled Sweetie in closer to shield her. A sharp shower of grit and broken masonry rained down around both their heads.

The strut groaned and shifted above him. Not a good sound, Don froze with fear. He made a kind of turtle-shell over the baby, and tucked her in under his chin. One more groan. It sounded like the building was in pain. Or perhaps, he was becoming delirious? He gasped, and nearly passed out in agony, as the strut slipped down another few inches.

He breathed hard, and fought to stay conscious. _In a way,_ he told himself, _it was better. _The central weight of the girder had moved away from his abdomen. It now pressed down across the small of his back.

Sweetie squirmed, and wriggled beneath him. She was crying now, shaken from her doze. Her wails cut through the eerie silence, high and thin like the call of a bird.

_Timing – he had to hand it to her._

Just like most females, the baby had great timing. The noise re-focused his wavering attention, and cleared away the brain-fog in his head.

"Sorry, shrimp," he struggled clumsily to soothe her, wishing he knew more about such mysteries. Up until this moment, she'd been as good as gold, but right now, her face was crumpled and distressed.

He ran through his meagre knowledge of babies. He was hardly the world's greatest expert. As far as he knew, their needs were simple. _You fed one end and cleaned up the other._ It was all very well in theory, but in practise, it was different entirely. He had nothing - not even any water. They were stymied on both accounts. There was nothing he could give her to eat or drink, and no way of changing her diaper. He couldn't lift her to rock her against his shoulder – in-fact, he could scarcely move at all.

It was odd, but he'd lost all track of time.

_How long had it been since the explosion?_

Don squinted down at his watch.

He hadn't even thought to ask Megan - fifteen minutes past what hour?

_Less than an hour,_ he almost laughed out loud. _It felt like the best part of a lifetime._ The bomb had gone off at 09.30 and it was barely twenty minutes past ten.

He wondered how often Sweetie needed to be fed. Once again, he cursed his meagre knowledge. It crossed his mind with bittersweet pang - if he was a father, he'd know more about babies. He had a vague idea from various movies he'd seen, but he'd never really paid much attention. There was a random number inside his head, a sketchy inkling of every four hours or so. If he'd got there just after breakfast, then the odds must be stacked in his favour. Oh boy, he really hoped she was still full of rusk, or whatever babies ate in the mornings. It stood to reason the nursery staff would try and follow a set feeding routine.

_So what was wrong - why was she crying?_

Don was suddenly anxious. He wished the dim light was brighter.

_Maybe she was hurt after all?_

As if to emphasise his fears, Sweetie began to cry even louder. Her hands clenched into tiny fists of fury as she waved them around in the air.

"Hey, hey, little honey," he crooned to her softly, and the sound of his voice seemed to interest her. She took in a breath on a huge, gulping sob, and started to whimper instead.

"That's better," Don made a smiley face, encouraged by his success.

_There was something – what was it dad used to do, whenever Charlie was screaming the place down?_

He would waggle his eyebrows, that was it. Up and down, just like Charlie Chaplin. It had always worked miracles with Charlie. Never failed to make him laugh like a drain. It was odd then, that of the two of them, dad's _waggle-gene_ had bypassed his younger son. Much to dad's amusement and Charlie's annoyance, Don had inherited the Eppes eyebrow mojo.

He hoped it wouldn't have the adverse effect, and start her crying all over again. He shifted the baby up higher in his arms, and struggled over onto his shoulder. It would be easier to comfort her from this position, than lying almost prone on his belly. A cataract roared and foamed in his ears, and the movement did him no favours. He had a razor-sharp reminder of his injuries, and for a second, everything turned grey.

A_nd talking of screaming the place down, he hoped his yell hadn't damaged Sweetie's ears. _

"Fuck, fuck . . ."

He was swearing, he knew he was swearing again . . . but fuck . . . he really couldn't help it. He clamped his jaws tightly together, lips whitening and bloodless with pain. _This wasn't good - it was so not good._ His language was worse than a navvie's. _Oh God, not in front of the baby. He shouldn't sully her tiny ears. _Tears of agony streaked down through the dust on his face, as he battled to endure the torment. He didn't know how long it lasted - seconds passed - or maybe even minutes. While he rode out the hellish rapids, it was fuzzy and kind of vague. The entire concept and passage of time was as hazy and fucked-up as he was.

It took a while before he was lucid again, and then he realised everything had gone quiet.

"No," a pure moment of panic. "No, God, Sweetie?" he reached for the baby.

Her eyes were wide and bright, like little round pennies. She stared gravely up into his face.

Don cried then; _really_ cried with relief. His throat relaxed and he couldn't help it. For a nightmare sliver of a second, the world had darkened, and he'd thought he'd failed her. That she'd slipped away like smoke through his fingertips, and for a second, appalling time, he'd lost her.

_No – this was Sweetie – this wasn't the princess._

He was getting them confused inside his head.

He held her close and shook silently. _He was losing it – he couldn't lose it. _For Sweetie's sake, he had to take care of her. He had to hang tough, just like Rocky Balboa.

_Didn't matter if it sounded incongruous. It would be better if he did what Megan said. _

He looked at the display on his cell phone. Five more minutes before he checked-in. Five minutes in which to pull himself together. Dear God, he hoped she had some good news.

Sweetie sighed, and curled up against him, warm and relaxed against his shoulder. He buried his face against the soft wool of her beanie, and inhaled the milky scent of her hair.

Something had made her stop crying. He only hoped it wasn't his language. A crash course in gutter Anglo-Saxon - not the baby-pacifier of choice. It could be worse, much worse. She wasn't talking yet. There was no way she would repeat it in public.

_And what did you learn from Special Agent Don Eppes?_

He could just see the look on Alan's face.

_Oh God, Dad and Charlie._

What the hell was this going to do to them?

There were so many words he wanted to say. Despair fell across him like a mantle. He wished - how he wished - things were different. The darkness reached out to him again. For the present, they were getting on with their lives - his family, still unsuspecting. If he tried very hard, he could picture them now. He could hardly bear to think of their reaction. It would be mayhem getting out of the city. David wouldn't have told them yet.

Right now, they were preparing for the party, and getting ready for the first day of Hanukkah. Dad would be out in the kitchen, up to his eyeballs in vast mountains of food. And Charlie . . . _Don smiled, and closed his eyes_ . . . he'd probably be getting in dad's way.

So much for the party he'd been dreading so much.

_Way to go, Eppes, talk about a damper. _

Party or no party, he'd sell his soul to the devil.

_He'd do anything to be with them right now._

_**TBC**_


	6. Chapter 6

**Benedictus**

_In the tender compassion of our God _

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us, _

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet into the way of peace. _

From the **Benedictus, Song of Zechariah**, The Gospel of Luke

* * *

**Part Six**

Charlie watched it all unravel with dismay in his heart. He could scarely believe what he was seeing. It was horribly like the morning of 9/11, and they'd had the TV on ever since. A single blast, from what he could glean, using a huge amount of high explosive. The visible damage was bad enough; at least three floors were clearly gutted, but whoever had planned this had hoped for much more - demolition and grand scale carnage.

_To bring the entire tower block crashing down._

Charlie tried not to think about those trapped inside. It was easier to focus on the logistics. The detonation had caused a structural shockwave to ripple up the north side of the building. He frowned, and stared hard at the TV screen, trying to work out the permutations. Some of the floors had caved in on themselves, and others had slipped and subsided.

There were two pivotal storeys, as far as he could tell, and so far, they were relatively undamaged. He had a sudden moment of deja-vu, it was the Jenga theory all over again. Support those floors – repair them, and shore them up – and the building could be saved, at least temporarily. The pressing need was to create some precious time, at least long enough to affect a rescue.

The news station didn't know precise numbers, but there were still too many people unaccounted for.

_Damn it, where was his brother?_

Don wasn't responding to his messages.

His cell phone kept going straight to voicemail. There was no answer, just the same terse message, every single time Charlie tried.

"Nothing?"

Alan watched him from the doorway, a mixing bowl and spatula in his hand. He popped his head in from the kitchen to catch up on the latest details. Charlie sighed, he didn't know why dad bothered. There was no point in this cooking marathon. All the platters and dishes of finger food would end up going to waste. It didn't look like there would be a party, either tonight, or anytime soon.

"He's down there – he must be." Charlie pointed at the screen. "The place is crawling with FBI. They've closed off the city centre, but dad, I really need to get to Ground Zero. I know for sure I can help with this. There's a way of securing that building. It might only be a temporary measure, but it will give them some time to get inside."

"Charlie," Alan sighed, and put the bowl on the arm of the chair. He came in, and sat down on the sofa. "What could you possibly do? They have major incident protocol, and rescue teams in place. Aside from the fact you might be in danger, you'd only get in the way."

"I'm sure they do," he tried the cell phone again, fingers tapping impatiently. "But they can't get inside the building until they know it's comparatively safe. I need to look at the blueprints and speak to the structural engineers. I can work it out a damned sight faster than them, and just _maybe_ help save some lives. _Now, if Don would only pick up his phone_."

"I expect there's some sort of restriction. We shouldn't bother him, he's bound to be busy. If you're sure about this, we can take the car. Won't your ID get us inside the cordon?"

"It'll take far too long," he went to caller direct. "I'll try and get hold of Megan - "

"Maybe you won't need to," Alan got to his feet. "David's just pulled up outside."

"I guess Don sent him to collect me. About time," Charlie was brisk as he snapped his cell closed. "Dad, I have no clue what time I'll be back, I think you'd better make some calls about the party. Now, I just need to find my laptop – tell David I'll be right there."

"David," Alan opened the front door. "You'd better come in, this is terrible. We've been watching the news since it happened; my God, all those poor people. Charlie will be with you in a second. I don't suppose you can give us all that much information, but I'm guessing my elder son is on the scene?"

"Thank you."

The agent stepped into the room. He was kitted up and still dressed in field gear. He hesitated before giving an answer, a stricken expression on his face.

Charlie had seen that look before. In his dreams – no, better make that his nightmares. It was associated with bitter memories of mom, and a world tumbling down around his ears.

He knew then, the same time dad did.

Knew something bad had happened to Don.

"You should both sit down," David's voice was kind. He was back in charge of the situation. His training had reasserted itself, and now he was entirely professional. "Maybe we should go through to the living room - "

"No, thank you," Charlie's face was like granite. "You can tell us what's happened, right here."

"David, please," Alan took hold of his arm. "Please tell me what happened to my son?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Charlie was bitter. "He was in there, wasn't he? For some reason, Don was inside the tower. He got caught up in the explosion after the bomb went off."

"Please," David looked directly at Alan. "I really think you need to sit down. Come on - " he tucked his hand around the other man's arm and led him through to the sofa. "Yes, Don was still inside the building. He was trying to coordinate the civilian evacuation, once we'd verified the bomb threat was real."

Charlie followed them in and sat down. The TV was still on in the background. Helicopters, reporters and scenes of destruction. The pictures were a mockery to his eyes. For some reason, he was bubbling with anger. No, better make that fury.

_What the hell did Don think he was doing, there was a bomb warning, and he'd gone inside?_

There was something wrong with his brother.

_Why did he always have to play hero?_

To head into a potential bomb-site – _did he actually want to die?_

"Is he dead?"

He deliberately ignored dad's sharp intake of breath, as his words fractured the brief moment of silence. He was sick of the softly-softly approach, and besides, someone had to say it. There was no point beating around the damned bush, he had to know if Don was alive.

"No - not dead."

The answer was swift, but David looked at him oddly, and Charlie guessed he was acting out of character. The air had frozen to ice in his lungs, it hurt when he took a breath. Other than that, he felt oddly calm, almost as if they were talking about a stranger.

It was Hanukkah and he was having a party tonight. Everything in his life was running smoothly. He had Amita, his latest book, plenty of money in the bank; just for once, everything was on a roll. He could honestly say he was truly happy, for the first time, in what seemed like forever. It was typical that something like this should occur, when he was positive and feeling fulfilled.

This shouldn't – _this couldn't_ be happening now. Why would fate be so unkind?

More to the point, why would Don be so stupid?

_Oh God._ He caught his breath on a sob, a ray of light piercing in through his consciousness. He focused, and felt it enlarge and expand, as everything else fell away.

_Did David just say, not dead?_

He bent forward, and pinched the bridge of his nose. A sudden wave of vertigo crashed over him. He felt all the blood drain down to his toes - either that, or the room just started swaying. He raised his head dully, and stared at the screen. At the panic and the shocking scenes of ruin. _Not a stranger – no, it wasn't a stranger._ It was his brother they were talking about there. Don was trapped somewhere in that building, most likely, twisted and broken. He was lying, all alone in the darkness, under layers of shattered cement.

"_Not dead?" _

He repeated the words out loud, like a mantra, like he could make them true merely by saying them. The metaphorical walls tumbled around him, as his own, internal towers collapsed.

"He managed to contact Megan. She spoke to him on his cell. He's trapped on the ground floor of the building – that's about all we know, so far."

"I don't understand," Alan was struggling. "What was he doing – why was he still inside? Once you knew the bomb threat was genuine, why didn't he make it out of there?"

"You have to understand, we didn't have much time." David regarded them, unhappily. "We had an entire tower block to evacuate, there were hundreds of people inside. They sent the warning to a local radio station instead of to the usual authorities. There was no use of code words or recognised warnings; in effect, we were working blind."

"Casabianca," Charlie murmured the line of poetry, vaguely. "_The boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but he had fled."_

"It still doesn't explain why he got caught in the blast," Alan looked across at his younger son sharply. His face was etched with deep lines of worry, and right now, not only for Don.

"Don knew the explosion was imminent, so he sent Megan on ahead. He needed someone he could trust on the outside to liaise with the emergency services. There was no way of knowing exactly when they'd detonate, so we were operating in a really tight pocket. As far as we can tell, he was on his way out, but they needed some help in the Crèche."

"The Crèche?"

"There's a Crèche on the ground floor of the building – very popular with the office workers. According to one of the survivors, Don helped them to evacuate just in time - "

He paused, and his face reflected their own. It was a template for the shock they were all feeling. To have this happen, right here, in their city . . . on the doorstep, and so close to home. In-spite of the media and all the recent alerts, it still seemed grotesquely outrageous. Terrorism was something which always took place in other, distant parts of the world. But the world was a different place now, and all the old parameters had shifted. The age of complacency was over, and nowhere was totally safe.

"Everything went to hell after that." David took a breath and continued. "Whoever did this, came well prepared. Our communications systems were jammed, and there was no chance to send in the bomb squad guys. They used a remote detonator, and blew the first few storeys sky high."

"You said he was trapped, is he injured?" Alan swallowed, as he dealt with the imagery. Eager as he was, to find out the truth, hearing the brute facts still hurt. "And just how soon can the rescue teams get to him? That woman on TV, the reporter, she said no one was allowed inside."

"Safety protocal states, there are five standard phases of structure collapse, search and rescue." Charlie fought hard to break out of his fugue, and recited the words like an automaton. "Right now, it's only likely the first two will have been carried out."

"Well, go on," Alan spoke a little sharply. He was clearly trying hard to be patient. "For those of us not _au fait_ with the finer details, a little enlightenment, if you don't mind?"

The acerbic tone had the desired effect, and Charlie pulled himself back together. He felt safer, more secure on familiar ground, now that he could start to use his brain. Thank God, he remembered the research he'd done during the Finn Montgomery case. Little had he known back then, that one day, he'd require it again.

"The first stage begins immediately." He glanced at David for quick confirmation. "It's the job of the designated response team, or _Task Force_, to size up and recon the conditions. The _Task Force_ is carefully pre-chosen, and given plenty of specialist training. It consists of rescue and medical personnel, technical and canine search teams; structural engineers and OSHA officers, hazardous material advisors. There are others, like heavy equipment experts, logistics people and public liason."

"We also have an explosives team on site," David added, as Charlie paused for breath. "A little something we had to learn from the Israeli's. The terrorists watch and wait for the rescue teams to arrive, and then they'll detonate a second bomb."

"But there's no sign of that happening this time around?" Alan's eyes flicked across to the TV screen, and his face seemed to drain of colour. "Dear God, David, tell me. It's been almost three hours since the first explosion. That's not going to happen now?"

"It's not likely," David tried to reassure him, "but we have to cover all of our bases. And Charlie's right about the five standard phases; when I left, they'd got as far as stage two. Primary search and surface rescue - save all those you can see and reach safely."

"But not Don." Alan continued to stare at the TV screen, as though Don might suddenly pop up out of the ruins. The damaged tower was still plainly visible, but the area all around the building had been effectively cordoned off. He sighed, clearly picturing his son trapped inside. He did his best not to sound too sarcastic. "I take it we're still waiting for phase three?"

"Void space and secondary search. To locate and recover bodies, and rescue any trapped survivors."

Alan blanched at the blunt terminology. "I hope that's not in order of likelihood?"

"One of the biggest concerns during any rescue operation is the level of acceptable risk. Phase three will not, _and cannot_ get underway, until a level of safety is assurred."

Charlie wasn't pulling any wasted punches on this. He didn't have them to spare in his armoury. He was deliberately being brutal in order to ram home his point. Wasting time - they were wasting time - sitting here, when they should be moving. There were too many things he could be doing to help. He no longer had the patience for this. It was chaotic on the TV screen, and the thick plume of smoke was still rising.

Downtown - he had to get downtown.

_Don's life might be slipping away._

He looked directly over at David, and his voice was level in-spite of his pallor. "You have to get me down there, ASAP. I know I can help secure the building. I need to look at the architectural blueprints, and speak to the structural engineers. Dad - " he glanced over at Alan. "I could really use your input and experience."

"They have already have skilled people doing those things." David had been waiting for this.

Charlie didn't miss a beat. "With respect, not as skilled as I am."

David was doing his best, he really was, and after all they were talking about Don here. He straightened up, and steeled himself all over again. He knew his next words would not be very popular.

"Don wanted you both to remain right here. In-fact, he was very specific."

"Typical," Charlie spat out the word. He thumped the arm of the couch in frustration. "This is just what I was talking about earlier. Now dad, do you see what I mean? _Bossy _isn't a strong enough word."

"Charlie - "

"No dad, not this time, please don't _Charlie_ me. I have _every_ right to say this." He jumped up, off the edge of the sofa, and began to pace back and forth across the room. "I'm entitled to offer my expertise, I have top security clearance. _And_ if I have to call Washington, then you'd better understand that I will. David - " he turned to the hapless agent. "Please don't let's waste anymore time with this. You need to give us a ride downtown."

"Charlie - "

"I'd rather you didn't buck me on this; it has nothing to do with my brother. All I need is a little more specific data. There _is_ a way to make that tower block safe."

"Better do as he says," Alan got to his feet. "Make no mistake, we're coming with you. We can't just sit here and wring our hands - _no matter what Don says._ By the way - " he reached over, and ruffled his younger son's head, delaying the action for a moment. The gesture seemed to steady the both of them, despite the visible tremor of his hand. "For the record, I wasn't _Charlie-ing_ you. Actually, I was about to agree with you. Whatever happens, I want to be close to Don. No one's going to keep me away."

David knew he'd been played like a fish on a line. They'd reeled him in, hook, line and sinker. He searched hard for a spark, just a glimmer of hope, but there would be no honourable escape. He glanced from Alan to Charlie - there was nothing, not a flicker of concession. Not a glint on either of their faces. He sighed, and became resigned to his fate.

_Right now, they reminded him of his boss. _

_Oh yeah, he'd seen this look before, no quarter and no room for compromise. _

The patented Eppes inflexibility must be imprinted into their cells. David sighed, and envisaged the look on Reeve's face - the picture was not a happy one. As formidable and scarily bad as it was, it would be nothing compared to Don's. He tried to push aside the growing conviction he was making a terrible mistake.

"He's going to kill me," he said, matter-of-factly. It was a more honest way of saying yes.

"He'll have to go through me first," Charlie shot him a small smile. The quick flash of fight had drained out of him, and for the first time since entering the Craftsman, David glimpsed the raw grief in his eyes. "But in the end, it isn't his decision. I meant every word about saving the building. This isn't just about Don."

"The hell it's not," Alan snorted, and gestured at the TV screen. "I don't give a damn about the building. All I want is my son back . . . all that matters is saving people's lives."

In his heart, Charlie agreed with him, but he was frightened by the scale of his emotions. Anger, grief and downright terror, panic splintered like a prism of light inside his head. There wasn't a single atom of his body left unpierced by the cruel shards of brilliance. _He knew then, he couldn't give into it._ The dread was almost overwhelming. He was close now, teetering right on the brink. Petrified, and boxed in by fear.

A part of him wanted to stand well back, and shut down all sensory feeling. To take refuge deep inside the numbers, and obscure any potential for pain. There was a time, _dear God,_ when he would have done just that. A time when he simply wasn't strong enough. The numbers had provided him with a form of analgesia, but in the end, they had proved a false friend.

_Not now – he wouldn't let them take him again. _

He was different now, he was stronger.

He fought hard to confine his emotions.

_Maybe he was channelling Don? _

The thought wasn't all that comforting. It made him frightened, and yet more determined. He had to stay calm and resolute, focused and self-possessed. The very last thing he needed to hear was the sound of Don's voice in his head.

Not if he was going to save him.

_Not if he was going to save his brother. _

"Do you know if he's hurt?"

There was nothing like getting straight to the point. The words came out plain and unadorned. Dad had asked the same question earlier, but he'd hijacked the conversation. _It was curious what you thought of at times like this,_ Charlie wondered, abstractedly. _Perhaps his subconscious had found a way of deliberately avoiding the answer?_

"We know he was out of it for a while – said he got struck by some falling masonry."

"Hear that, dad, it could be a whole lot worse. He always had a hard head."

As jokes went, it was a dismal failure, but at least it had the desired effect. The wave of panic had almost receded. He was in full control once again. _Run the numbers, you can do this._ And he could. He knew that now. He was no longer afraid of all the clatter and clamour which represented the colours of life.

"You said he's been talking to Megan?" He marvelled to hear himself sounding so cool.

"He's been checking in every twenty minutes or so . . . _what the hell_?"

"Dear God," Alan left the doorway. "_Oh, please God, no._ Charlie, quickly, turn up the volume. Charlie, the remote control, now!"

A band of iron clamped around his chest, and he turned back to face the television. He lifted up the slender handset, and pressed the button, as if in a dream.

_Not again. It couldn't be happening. _

It was hard to believe what they were witnessing.

He stared at the TV in horror, and gripped hold of the handset for dear life. If the fates were looking down at them now, then surely, this was some form of hoax. The female reporter was clearly distraught, almost sobbing into her microphone. Charlie saw her mouth opening and closing, but he couldn't hear a single word she said.

_Not the whole block. Please – not the whole block . . ._

As he watched, another corner of the building slid down, sending clouds of choking dust into the air.

_**TBC**_


	7. Chapter 7

**_Benedictus_**

* * *

_In the tender compassion of our God_

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us,_

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death,_

_and guide our feet into the way of peace._

_From the **Benedictus, Song of Zechariah, The Gospel of Luke**_

* * *

**_Part Seven_**

The first check-in was a piece of cake. He spoke to her after exactly twenty minutes. He didn't tell her how unstable the air pocket was, or that the beam had shifted again. There was nothing to be gained, as far as he could see, and no point in worrying her further. It had to be a nightmare on the outside. She was doing one hell of a job.

The second time, he was a few minutes late. He'd been drowsing, fading in and out of consciousness. He awoke with a jerk of panic, and a jolt of excruciating pain. His hands were shaking so badly, he could scarcely push the redial button. Megan answered again after barely one ring and he heard the concern in her voice.

He asked her about the baby, but they hadn't managed to trace her. The nursery workers and other infants he'd saved, had been rushed away from the scene. The implication lay unspoken between them - could be her mother was still trapped inside. After that, he tried hard to keep more alert, as Sweetie napped softly beside him. Right now, she needed him more than ever, and he was fiercely determined not to fail her.

It was all very well in theory, but in reality, he knew he was fading. He felt nauseous and drunkenly light-headed, but worse than that, was the unremitting cold. He was still sharp enough to realise the ice in his blood was nothing more than an illusion. The stale air beneath the rubble was thick with dust and chemicals, and warm as a bowl of soup.

He didn't know if he was still bleeding, but he was definitely in shock, pure and simple. He set his jaw to stop it from chattering, and ignored the fluttering heartbeat in his chest. The pain had settled somewhere around his pelvis and reached down into the tops of both legs.

_If the sick, grating feeling, was anything to go by, there were definitely some broken bones._

There was nothing he could do, except lie here. No position he could adopt to make things easier. He could only move the top half of his body, so it was no good trying to second guess his injuries.

_What the hell, he was drifting again._

His eyes had closed of their own volition.

_Stay awake, he had to fight this._ He forced himself to take stock of their prison.

The void space they were trapped in was pretty small, and the strut lay across him diagonally. Despite being the main cause of his injuries, paradoxically, it had saved both their lives. The wall behind him was painted and smooth. Almost certainly, they were still in the corridor. Judging by the broken tiles and type of debris all around them, it looked like the ceiling had collapsed.

The damaged building was constantly shifting, and Don could hear the distant slip and slide of rubble. He fought down a small thrill of panic, as some rending metal groaned overhead. It was easier, and a darn sight more comforting, not to imagine what might be pressing down on top of them.

For the first time, he realised it wasn't totally dark. There was a light source coming from somewhere. He turned his head to one side, and craned his neck, but his range of vision was poor. He focused on the end of the strut, his eyes seeking its point of origin. Nothing tangible, he couldn't see that far. Just a pinprick funnel of light.

_It was something – it might be nothing._

He felt a quick surge of frustration. It probably led straight into another void space. It was impossible the exit was still viable, but at least it meant they were getting some air.

Air.

_Yeah, right – they were getting some air._

_That was another thing,_ he thought uneasily, _talk about a giant misnomer. _There was no way the cocktail of dust and chemicals they were inhaling, could ever properly qualify as clean air. He was worried about Sweetie's tiny lungs – just add it to his catalogue of problems. It was a big list and growing longer by the minute. It would be nice to cross a few items out.

He pulled a wry face in the darkness. He was turning into a real Job's comforter.

_Kinda hard to keep looking on the bright side, with half a building lying on your back._

The baby stirred and snuggled in closer, almost as though she sensed his anxiety. He curved a protective arm around her and held her gently against his chest. She was beautiful, he thought, looking down at her. She was going to be a real little heart-breaker. Those huge eyes and curly black lashes would wreak all kinds of havoc one day.

_Another reason to get her out of here – he would make damned sure she got the chance_.

Don marvelled at her behaviour, so far, she'd been a real little angel. He knew enough to guess this was unusual, and figured he ought to thank his lucky stars. Right from the beginning, and against the entire run of play; it was almost as if she knew they were in trouble. _Not that he'd blame her for screaming her head off._ He reckoned she was fully entitled. In fact, part of him wished he could join her.

_It didn't get much worse than this._

He rested his cheek against her forehead, smiling a little at all those old clichés. _Smooth as silk, soft as velvet . ._ . her skin really _did_ feel like a peach. She was _his_ angel - his little Sweetie Pie - she was so small, so utterly vulnerable. He was filled with a flood of protectiveness. He didn't care if he was acting like a sap.

It truly _was_ some kind of miracle she'd survived the explosion intact.

She sighed, and blew a few milky bubbles in her sleep. Don felt his heart contract. It was strange how such a tiny person could turn his insides to mush this way. Funny, but for a rank amateur, he'd always got on pretty great with kids. There was no secret or special formula, it just so happened he liked them. They were unique and never boring - filled to the brim with amazing potential. They _big time_ brought out his nurturing side, and he always enjoyed spending time with them. Perhaps because he'd been that much older than Charlie. Either that, or those damned, Eppes protective genes.

_The curse of big brother stikes again._

It occurred to him then, that in another life, he might easily have gone into teaching.

Not for the first time, he couldn't help wondering, what it would feel like being a parent. Both miraculous and utterly terrifying, all mixed together at the same time. To hold your baby - _to hold your own child in your arms_ - the way he was holding Sweetie. To wonder at her tiny perfection, and breathe in the scent of her skin. It wasn't all a bed of roses – you'd have to be a fool to think otherwise. Evil was always prowling - it was a dark and dangerous world out there.

_Never far away, just behind the scenes . . . he knew it was always searching. Always hungry, and always looking, for any chance to prey on such innocence._

If anyone knew that, then he did.

_The princess – oh God, the princess. _

The miracle had shattered, and turned into dust, when evil had snatched her away.

A familiar wave of depression washed over him then. It was time for a serious reality check._ The whole parent thing and being a father?_ For a variety of very salient reasons, it wasn't likely he'd ever know.

He shut his eyes in a futile attempt to hide from this particular pain. There were times when he'd tried to outrun it before, but it was always there, waiting to ambush him. _Like a secret heart of sorrow, he carried hidden inside._ If he could, right now, he would have laughed at himself. He sounded like the worse kind of dime novel. Talk about a self-pity party, _melodramatic much._

_The strong-jawed, silent hero who buried his troubles out of sight._

He wasn't that man, never had been him. It was just that he'd lost his way a little. He'd been groping in the half-light for too long now, trying to find his way out of the woods. In the past, he'd assumed he could have it all. A family life _and_ a career. That one day, he'd go the whole nine yards; a white picket fence, wife and kids.

Another assignment, another promotion. Ratchet up another failed relationship.

_No need to rush, he had plenty of time._

And all the while, the years kept passing by . . .

He missed the third and fourth check-in's completely. For a while, the blackness swallowed him whole. He awoke with a sense of panic, in a jagged tumble of nightmares. It took him much longer this time. He was so cold . . . and the darkness was enticing. Much longer to realise where the fuck he was, and what he was doing here_. _

_Much longer before he was aware enough to even remember his own name. _

_Thirsty,_ _dear lord, he would kill for a drink._ He was so dry, in-spite of the nausea. He felt bloodless and oddly weightless; he ran his tongue over parched lips. Not a good sign. It wasn't a good sign. It was another classic symptom of shock. There was something he was supposed to do – something he ought to be doing . . .

It came back to him eventually, the cell-phone clutched in his hand.

"Thank God," her voice cracked under the strain. "I was beginning to think you were pissed off with me."

"Megan - " _hell, he sounded appalling._ "Sorry . . . I guess I was out of it."

"Are you okay?" she began, _then;_ "no, don't answer that. You have to promise me you'll hold on a while longer."

"Right."

The word caught in Don's throat. It was all he could manage, and not just because of the dryness. He didn't need anymore explanations, he could tell by the tone of her voice. _They weren't coming in anytime soon._ He didn't know why his heart sank quite so low. It was nothing he hadn't expected to hear – nothing he didn't already know.

"There's a problem with the north side of the building, they're still worried about structural integrity. Until we have a few more answers, we can't run the risk of sending anyone inside."

There was something buzzing around in his skull, like a honey bee trapped in a jam jar. It was something he should probably remember – something useful he ought to recall. Whatever _it_ was, remained just out of reach. He frowned, as he grasped for the memory, but his mind would not grant him access. The thought-form danced slyly away from him, he was too hazy and stupid with pain.

_All he could see was a pile of wooden Jenga blocks. Some scattered over the ground. _

"Don, are you still with me?"

"Yeah, got a slight problem hearing you. I think the blast burst my eardrums," he tried to be as matter of fact as he could. He didn't want her to worry. "Still gonna be a while, then?"

"Looks like it," she was totally frank. "But at least we know where you are. The rescue teams are getting frustrated – they can't wait to get inside and do their job. We'll get to you, my solemn promise on that. Just as soon as they give us the nod."

"The baby – any news on the baby?"

It was about time he changed the subject, before she asked any pertinent questions. In all honesty, he could no longer give her his word he'd be alive when the rescue teams showed up.

"We're still trying. Colby's at the hospital tracking down the nursery workers, and Liz has a list of all the children who were supposed to be at the Crèche today. She's working her way through it now."

"No one's asked about her, no one's come forward?"

He didn't like the way this was going. _God – if she was his daughter – he'd single-handedly move mountains. _The lone fact that her family hadn't claimed her yet, really suggested they might still be inside. He took a breath in frustration. He was so fucking useless trapped here. But the dichotomy was, if he wasn't here now, little Sweetie would not be alive.

"No one yet, but it's chaos out here. We're doing as much as we can."

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry. It's just that someone should be worrying about her."

He could almost see her smile as she answered. "Sounds like _someone _is."

"Talking of which," his heart ached, but the question had to be asked. Time to consider his own predicament. He dragged his thoughts away from the baby. _Dad and Charlie - he needed to know._ "How did David do in Pasadena?"

"He's there right now. The traffic's gridlocked, took him a while to get out of the city. I told him to call me with an update once he's spoken to Alan and Charlie."

An update. It sounded like what it was. Efficient and to the point.

_How the hell do you break the appalling news a beloved child might be dead?_

Yesterday – _was it really only yesterday - _he'd been the one waiting on the doorstep. A harbinger of doom in a dark grey suit with the ashes of death on his tongue. It was a part of the job he hated, and yet he always insisted on doing it. He was team leader – he was responsible - and in a way, that missing child was his.

On the surface, they hadn't blamed him. Her parents had been incredible. They'd even gone so far as to thank him - dignified in their terrible grief. He'd shaken hands with the father, and walked down the driveway, through the throng of bloodhound reporters. A broken image of the tiny blond princess forever folded away in his heart.

"Thanks," he pushed the rogue memory aside. There was something else he needed to say to her . . . if he wasn't going to make it out of here, some words which had to be said. "Megan – I want you to tell them – to pass a message to dad and Charlie . . ."

"No, Don," _what the hell, was she crying?_ "No, you don't have to do this. There's nothing you need to say to them, they don't already know. And besides, you stubborn SOB, you can hold on and tell them yourself."

"Don't know if I can," he was honest then. "Not too good – I'm still bleeding. If I check out, I need you to promise me . . . don't leave Sweetie alone down here?"

"Don't you dare check out, do you hear me? We're not leaving either one of you. Just a little longer, do you hear me? You're both going to get out alive."

"Okay, Rocky," he smiled, feeling really light-headed. "I'll try to hang tough just for you."

"You'd better. Twenty minutes, okay? I'll be waiting to hear from you."

She sounded stronger, much firmer again. More like the Megan he knew and loved. He could see her now, pulling herself together. _Maybe he'd imagined the tears?_

He licked his lips. His mouth was parched. Getting worse - he_ really_ was thirsty.

_Dear God, he could use some water_, he thought, as he ended the call. _On the other hand,_ his tender stomach gave a treacherous lurch. _Maybe it wasn't such a bright idea. _

The way he felt right at this minute?

He probably couldn't keep anything down.

Little Sweetie murmured against him. She was still sleeping, blissfully oblivious. He was glad, it made things much easier. For him, and most certainly for her. When she woke up, he guessed she'd be hungry. Her diaper was going to need changing. He had a feeling her hitherto good behaviour was merely the calm before the storm.

_No sign yet of any parents._

Don frowned into the darkness.

Poor little shrimp, no one was missing her. No one had come forth to claim her. A cold thought uncoiled inside him. She could be an orphan right now. He pushed the idea resolutely aside. He'd seen too many kids get thrust upon the system. It did what it could, with the best will in the world, but a lot of lives were left strewn along the wayside.

Not Sweetie – not this precious little girl.

He laid his face against the fuzzy, pink beanie, a little humbled by the fragile bond between them. He needed her as much as she needed him - they were both relying on each other. There was no way he could surrender to the pain and shock, and sink down into the darkness. She wouldn't last very long without him. He couldn't leave her alone in all this mess.

Liz was working through a list of children right now. _Liz – she was nothing if not thorough. _There had to be a simple explanation as to why no one had come forward yet.

He gave into another flash of self-pity, and wondered if Liz was feeling guilty. Perhaps it was entirely understandable, but up until now, she hadn't crossed his mind once. He hoped she'd made the most of last night's date. It didn't look like they'd be getting much down time. It was a rogue thought and a pretty ignoble one, and he immediately felt ashamed. He disliked himself for thinking it as soon as it popped into his head.

He was above that – and she deserved better.

_God, Eppes, you're being really pathetic. _

Perhaps, just perhaps, he was entitled. It was cold and not the best of situations. He had a feeling – almost a sense of resignation now – he was not getting out of here alive.

Okay, if he couldn't have the water, then he'd settle for a large shot of morphine. He'd put up with the needle, with the loss of control, for a little relief from the pain. He remembered his behaviour in the apartment last night. The irony didn't fail to escape him.

_Wasn't that what he'd been doing with the alcohol?_

Trying to blot out his feelings – trying to run from the hurting?

Was he so weak, so utterly feeble, he couldn't cope with the veracity of life?

If he hadn't been here, then his Sweetie would have died. It was a cold, hard fact – pure and simple. This gorgeous little girl here beside him? There was no way she would have survived. He gritted his teeth and clung onto the theory, and in truth, it gave him some strength. Maybe she was the explanation for all of this. The cosmic reason he'd stayed behind in the building?

He smiled again at that, and thought of Charlie. Charlie had no faith in cosmic reasons. He believed in logic and explanatory consistency – it must be nice to live in such a rational world.

_Charlie . . ._

For some reason, Don's eyes grew blurry. It wasn't merely due to the pain. He grimaced; _dear God, he was falling apart._ His emotions were all over the place.

He remembered last night, as he was drifting off into a haze of Jack induced coma, he'd made a fuzzy promise to try and patch things up with Charlie today. However much he wasn't looking forward to it, dad's party was a perfect opportunity. It was time they got things out into the open. Time for some truths to be said.

_The best laid plans of mice and men . . ._

He tried to recall the rest of the saying, but his brain was particularly sluggish. To his surprise, he'd enjoyed studying Steinbeck at school, but he was sure it didn't originate there. _A poem, that was it, a poem._ Some old Scottish thing about a mouse. It had become one of the best knowm truism's - had Burns even guessed when he'd written it down?

_Digressing – uh-oh, he was digressing again._ Don dragged his thoughts back to the present. If he didn't fight hard to stay awake, then he knew he would drift off into unconsciousness.

Back to Charlie - there was so much he wanted to say. So much unfinished business between them. Maybe Charlie wouldn't think so badly of him . . . if only he could make Charlie understand . . .

The next time he spoke to Megan, he would insist on passing on a message. Not so much a deathbed confession, as a heartfelt missive of love. It was obvious why she'd stopped him before, and in a way, he didn't blame her. She was trying to appeal to his stubborn side by making him hold onto that thought. Once spoken, the words were irretrievable. Almost irrevocable - so final. As though he was saying his last goodbyes. It was a kiss of death in itself.

The stricken building creaked and shifted above him. It sounded eerily as though it was in pain. The groan of resonance from the rending metal was like the wailing of a lost soul in torment. Don listened hard in the semi-darkness, straining his damaged ears.

He curved his hand around Sweetie's diaper-padded rump, and pulled her in closer to his chest. There was something – water – _no, plaster dust_ – trickling down onto his legs.

Not good.

_This was so not good. _

The dust was followed by some small chunks of mortar which stung as they pelted down on him. He ducked the baby underneath his breastbone and tried to do the turtle thing again. It was not quite so easy this time – the building wasn't the only thing groaning. Moving hurt him a damned sight more. He almost passed out from the pain.

Something was happening, no doubt about it. The floor of the corridor was rocking. He had a feeling of sick anticipation that their small void space was going to cave in. The building was definitely shaking now; there was a rumbling noise somewhere in the distance. Don knew then, with a desperate certainty, there was going to be another collapse.

Should have gone with his first gut instinct.

_He should have passed on a message. _

In a few seconds, it would all be over.

_A few seconds, and a lifetime too late._

The sudden movement woke Sweetie. She stirred and began to wail. He looked down into her dear, little face, and waggled his eyebrows again. There was nothing he could do to make things right – he knew he was helpless to comfort her. There was one thing, and one thing only. He was here. She wasn't alone. He cupped her tiny skull in his hand, it was all he could do to protect her; and however futile the gesture, he pulled the blanket back over her head.

The dust fell around them like a downpour of rain, thick and choking and increasing in intensity. Don buried his face on his forearm and tried not to breathe it in.

The rumbling sound grew louder – like the approach of a loaded freight train.

Something heavy struck him sharply on the back of the head.

_The noise faded, and his vision went black._

_**TBC**_


	8. Chapter 8

_**Benedictus**_

_In the tender compassion of our God_

_The dawn from on high shall break upon us,_

_To guide on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death,_

_and to guide our feet into the way of peace._

**_From the Benedictus - Song of Zechariah - The Gospel of Luke_**

* * *

**Part Eight**

It was just like driving into a war zone; the journey downtown had taken a lifetime. Charlie sat in the front beside David, with a maelstrom of data in his head. He deliberately tried not to think about Don. It didn't serve any useful purpose. If he did, he would probably crumble, and there would be plenty of time for that later on. He listened closely to the breaking news reports, and worked on his laptop instead.

The latest collapse might have come as a shock, but it hadn't made much difference to his theory. Miraculously, the tower block had remained intact, as part of the third floor slid gracefully down. There was more rubble and superficial damage which had caved in some large chunks of masonry. It settled in billowing clouds of grey dust which filled the air with a powdery rain.

The fabric of the structure remained in one piece. It was kudos to the engineers and architects. A few important adjustments to his earlier calculations, and Charlie still believed the building could be saved. The terrorists had been correct in their hypothesis, and the positioning of the delivery truck was lethal. Thank the lord, they'd made one critical mistake in underestimating the amount of explosive.

If the force of the blast had been stronger, then the building would have imploded. The high-tensile, steel columns fracturing under the strain, as the outer shell collapsed into itself.

Charlie knew he could make it safe. The Jenga theory would still work in practise. There was one crucial point in the tower block's wall which could be shored up to provide key support. It was all about weights and balances, and preventing the floors from dropping. If they pulled out the stops and worked fast enough, they could stay within the vital, five day window.

Five day window.

_Who was he kidding?_

It was one of those modern buzz-terms which looked so damned good on paper. Efficient and smart in the protocol, so long as one remained detached. _Detached_ . . . Charlie felt like crying. He fought really hard to look at it objectively. The word had so many private connotations, and all of them reminded him of Don. He'd once accused his brother of being detached, but that was back in the early days. Those fledgling days, when, in his arrogance, he hadn't seen down under the surface. It was a time before he'd understood Don.

_Did he now?_

Charlie shirked the question.

From what dad said, it appeared he didn't.

He shouldn't - _really couldn't_ - go there right now. He dragged his thoughts back to the five day window.

As a means of measuring survival rates, the five day window was the international standard. It was applied to the aftermath of earthquakes, and to all those buried alive. If pulled from the rubble immediately, you stood a ninety-one per cent chance of making it. The rate dropped to eighty-one per cent after thirty minutes had passed. The first day was the most important; it was called _The Golden Day of Survival_. On the second day, the statistics took a nose-dive, down to only thirty-six per cent.

It got a lot worse, the two days after that, Charlie pushed the deadly figures away from him. It was one of the only times in his life, when he didn't want the numbers in his head. _He could do this, if he could only stay strong._ There might be dozens of lives depending on it. Frightened and injured, their precious time running out, and one of those lives was Don's.

This morning, he'd thought of Don as being tough. He'd gone so far as to describe him as stubborn. _God, if ever Don needed those qualities_ – Charlie prayed very hard he was right.

Despite all his good intentions, he was doing it, thinking of his brother. He back-tracked to his conversation with Amita and dad, and recalled all the things he'd said. It was a little too late to retract those words, and besides, some of the points had been salient. There was nothing to be gained by feeling guilty. He didn't have that much emotion left to waste.

Charlie flicked back to the laptop screen, and tried to concentrate on the numbers. He erected a hard shell around him, protective, like a carapace. It worked, or at least superficially, his mind felt sharpened and remarkably focused. As though he'd taken an extra large dose of some drug which temporarily shrouded the pain.

They were there now - Oasis Towers - or ground zero, as it was currently being referred to. The streets leading up to the plaza were blocked off with emergency vehicles. Charlie ground his teeth at the waste of time, as David drove through the restrictive cordons. He heard Alan hiss, a shocked intake of breath, as they neared the scenes of devastation and waste. It resembled newsreel footage of downtown Beirut, instead of the heart of LA.

_And that was the point,_ he thought, bleakly. _As we have suffered, so shall ye suffer. _

Except that two wrongs never _had _made a right. They only created more bitterness and anger.

"Here we are."

David reached the final checkpoint at last, and they queued to get through the heavy security. He pulled the SUV over, and they were forced to wait another five minutes. They were searched, then issued with hard-hats and respirators, and given temporary ID. They walked through the rows of waiting ambulances, past fire-trucks and search and rescue vehicles. There was already a working canteen in place, positioned next to a bottled water stand.

"Bottled water only," David inclined his head. "They turned off all the utilities. The mains pipes were fractured in the explosion, and they were worried about water leaks."

"Rescue workers drowned in the basements of buildings following the quake in Mexico City . . ." Charlie intercepted a stricken glare from Alan, and then realised what he'd just said.

_What the hell was wrong with him?_

He'd spoken the words without thinking. Just hard facts and no personal feelings. Right now, he was focused on the job in hand; he couldn't let his emotions hold sway. There was no room for reaction or sentiment here. In-fact, it would only hinder the proceedings. He had to function with all cylinders firing. He studied his father uncertainly.

_Perhaps they should have made dad stay at home? _

"Here's Megan," said David, with some relief. He'd been looking between the two Eppes men uneasily. There was some sort of undercurrent going on here, but he'd be damned if he could guess what it was.

"Megan," Alan got to her first. "Any news – have you heard from Don?"

Her hair was tucked under a hard-hat. She was pale, and looked frayed around the edges. There was resignation and a brief flash of grief in her eyes, as she drew Alan into a swift hug.

"You really shouldn't be here." As protests went, it was pretty half-hearted. She rested her hands briefly on his forearms, as though sucking back a quotient of lost strength. "The tower block hasn't been secured yet. As you saw, it's still structurally unsound."

"I can fix that," Charlie took a step forward, "and I need dad's input to help me. There's a way we can shore up the building with the use of high-tensile steel cables. It's all about the re-distribution of weight, balances and counter balances. We really have to move fast on this, so the rescue teams can get inside. I need to speak to the engineer in charge of the site . . . please . . . let's not waste anymore time."

He was stalling her, playing the evasion game. If there was bad news, then he didn't want to hear it. He tried to ignore the sudden silence, or the blatant way in which Alan's shoulders sagged. It hit him then, like a ray of light, some of the reasoning behind Don's behaviour. It was as though he'd been granted a rare, private viewing inside his brother's mind.

The apparent lack of empathy and professional abruptness – how much simpler to shrug on this persona?

_Just keep your head down and do it._

Like Don had, on so many occasions.

_Keep yourself at an emotional distance, makes it easier to get on with the job._

"Wait," Alan reached over, and grasped his wrist. The pressure was none too gentle. It imprisoned him, and anchored him firmly, before he could make an escape. "Charlie, what the hell is wrong with you? I don't intend going anywhere until I've heard some news about Don."

Megan swallowed hard, and then nodded. She looked like she'd been dreading this moment.

Charlie knew, damned well, what she was going to say. He spun away and avoided her eyes.

"Don's trapped in a void space, on what was, the ground floor. We used the GPS tracker to locate him. Although the rescue teams can't reach him until the building's made safe, we have a very good idea of his position."

"What _was_ the ground floor?" Alan sounded distraught. His face beseeched her, as though demanding more answers. "What the hell is that supposed to mean – David said you'd spoken to him on the cell phone?"

"Some of the ground floor subsided, and fell down into the basement. Alan, as terrible as that sounds, it might actually have saved his life. A fireball from the blast ripped right through the first two floors. Don would most probably have been burned alive."

"Oh God," he pulled away from her. The thought was too appalling to contemplate. Not only for his precious son, whom he loved, but for the others who must have been trapped inside. "And you spoke with him?"

Charlie felt his chest tighten as Alan repeated the question. It was the third time in a row, he'd asked it now, and it was easy to understand why. He wanted to hear her keep saying it - badly needed the verification. When David confirmed that they'd spoken with Don, it had given them a huge surge of hope.

"After he got through initially, he checked in with me three times." Megan sighed, and pushed the hard hat back on her head. It was impossible to miss her hesitation. Indecision warring with a need for truth, and her feelings for the man trapped inside.

Truth won.

In the end, there was no contest.

_It had to._

She owed it, both to him, and to his family.

"He was supposed to call me every twenty minutes. I haven't heard since the last subsidence. The signal's weak, and the lines are pretty much jammed, but so far, he just isn't answering."

"Was he hurt?" Alan croaked, he sounded so hoarse, as though he had laryngitis. He was clearly suppressing his agony, the bands of tension tight around his throat.

"He was hit on the head. That's all we know. He was lucid each time I spoke with him. He _did_ mention being pinned by a support beam, but there's very little else I can tell you. You know your son better than I do, typical Don, he was more worried about the baby."

"The baby?"

"He was helping to evacuate the Crèche," Megan glanced over at David, and raised an enquiring eyebrow. She frowned a little, and then continued, after seeing him shake his head. "I'm surprised David didn't tell you. I'm guessing it's what delayed his escape - he's trapped with a baby girl."

Charlie looked up sharply at that. Trust his brother, the arch-protector. He might have made it out of the building in time, if only he hadn't stopped by the Creche. _If only_ . . . he shook himself, abruptly . . . _there was no point heading off down that route._ No point in what ifs, or if only's. _Hardly any time for anything at all._ Recrimminations - they could do those later - spend hours pulling them to bits, and pouring over them. He could ask what the hell Don was thinking - when eventually, they pulled him out alive.

Yet, in a perverse way, it gave him a beacon of hope.

The baby was a mini-Pandora.

Another human being – a tiny life in his hands - a strong reason for Don to stay alive.

It was a side of his brother he knew only too well. His earlier words came back to haunt him. He'd been describing it in detail just this morning, and not in a very flattering light. Don took his responsibilities very seriously, and a baby would be a real motivator. God, he would try his very best, he would be doggedly determined to save her. Charlie felt a momentary pang of guilt, it was pretty tough on the child, and those who loved her. But at the present, he couldn't think about that. At this point, he focused solely on Don.

_He'd grasp hold of everything and anything at all. _

_Anything that might help save Don's life_.

He looked candidly over at Megan, fed up with the stark lack of options. She was doing her best to be tactful, but he wasn't fooled by her careful choice of words. "So, we know where he is, and we know that he's hurt. It's about time we did something to save him."

"Charlie, we're doing all we can." He could hear the real frustration in her voice. "It isn't just Don's life in the balance. So far, at a conservative estimate, there are at least a hundred people trapped inside - "

People crushed, buried under the rubble. Lying there, all alone in the darkness. Or choking on thick coils of acrid smoke, as even worse, they were burned alive. He put a hand to his head, and closed his eyes. As though it might shut out the images. They taunted him, lurid in colour, blossoming forth into ghastly life.

_At least a hundred . . . a logistical nightmare . . . how to estimate the life-saving ratios . . ._

"Charlie?"

It was Alan, with a gentler hand on his arm. He sounded unsure, and wound tight with worry. Charlie waited until his breathing had calmed, and then he re-opened his eyes. For a moment, he had come dangerously close. He had teetered on the brink of losing it. The numbers had been crowding in on him, trying to honey-trap him over the edge.

He'd vowed they would never engulf him again. He was past this; older and stronger. He refused to become that poor, lost boy, who had blanked out his mother's death. In the end, you gained nothing by running from pain. Like a nemesis, it always caught up with you. He was over thirty years old now – it was high time he grew a pair.

"It's okay. _I'm_ okay," he braced himself, and met Alan's look of concern. He pushed aside the whispering numbers, and nodded his head with confirmation.

He needed all his wits about him.

_They would never know how close he had come._

He could do this - he knew he could do this - he felt some of his confidence returning. He stared up at the ravaged tower again, and shielded his eyes from the sun. The light was bright with the white glare of mid-afternoon, and he wished he'd remembered his shades. He realised they needed to get underway - time to work on his calculations. It was all very well on a television screen, but he still had to see for himself.

The ground crews had put out the worse of the fires, but thick smoke still raged out of the windows. The main problem was accessibility. They were prevented from tackling them all. On the whole, it looked like he'd hoped it would. He felt a thrill of sudden excitement. In fact, the damage to the vital, pivotal floor, was even less than he'd first factored in.

_He was right about this._

He knew he was.

Charlie felt a heady rush of adrenalin. He had to get his hands on the architect's blueprints to confirm what he already thought. There was a shopping list of construction materials which needed to be set in motion. He knew enough about major disaster response to assume they would be readily accessible.

"Who's in charge of the collapse situation?"

"John Murdoch's the IST-A (_Incident Support Teams-Advanced__)_ officer. He's in charge of any potential re-engineering within the building collapse zone." Megan unhooked her Nextel walkie-talkie from her belt. "I'll get him over here to talk to you now."

They stood aside, as Megan began talking, and Sinclair went for a tray of coffees. Charlie wondered about wind sway and the weather report. So far, it was a warm, fine day.

"Charlie?" Alan's voice was still strained. "What's going on, are you okay?"

"What?" he tried hard not to sound too impatient, as the question fractured his concentration. "Look, dad, I'm kind of busy right now. Can't we leave this for another time?"

Alan regarded him with unfathomable eyes. "Sure, if that's the way you feel. I understand your brother needs you now, and I don't want to get in your way."

'_I understand your brother needs you right now . . .'_

Where had he heard those words before?

_Oh, God, his little chat with Amita._

The words hit home like a poisoned dart, and he felt his heart beat a little faster. How much of it had dad really overheard, perhaps, the entire conversation?

Did he choose those words deliberately?

_Was his father that duplicitous?_

And had he – Charlie – actually admitted, he enjoyed having this kind of power over Don?

The smoke and the chaos faded away, and shrank into tiny pinpoints. He clenched hold of his laptop tightly, until his knuckles turned ivory white. If he pressed down very hard on his jaw, he could just about stop his teeth from chattering. He was suddenly, horribly, marrow-cold, as though someone had dunked him in ice.

It was a hell of a motivational tool, but it hit home just where it needed. Charlie aligned his shoulders, and looked his father straight in the eye. _Okay, it was time to acknowledge the facts._ He'd said a few things he was ashamed of. Maybe he'd aired some contentious points, and touched on a few raw nerves. There were matters between them which should be explored, but right now, really wasn't the time.

With a sudden, more mature flash of insight, he could see now, what dad was doing. Alan needed to know he could cope with this - that he was functioning with all systems firing.

"Please, dad, I can do this," his voice was firm and even. "There _is_ a way to stabilise this building. And yes, I'm just as scared as you are, but we need to get those rescue squads inside."

Alan considered, and swallowed hard. "I know you can, _I know you can, Charlie._ If _anyone_ can save those poor people . . . " he paused, and looked vaguely ashamed of himself. "I'm sorry, son. Sorry I doubted you, but your brother and I . . . we _both_ need you. I had to know you were strong enough, and I worry about you, too."

Charlie's vision went blurry with emotion, as Alan pulled him into a rough hug. For a brief moment, he soaked up the comfort. His father smelled of tweed and smoke.

"Thanks, dad."

He pulled away after a few seconds. He felt calmer now, and ready for anything. He bit back an instinctive flair of antagonism, as he saw Liz Warner approach them. The emotion was sharp and inherent; it caught him somewhat unawares.

With his usual, sphinx-like reticence, Don hadn't said much about their break-up, but under the current, desperate circumstances, Charlie found he really didn't want to see her.

"Alan?"

Liz addressed his father first. Charlie noticed she was shaking slightly. He felt a sudden qualm of compunction when he saw the dark rings around her eyes.

"Hello, Liz."

To Alan's credit, he didn't miss a beat. His voice remained low and courteous. You would never know if he bore a grudge, or harboured any resentment inside. He accepted this woman had hurt his son, even though Don refused to discuss it. The only small sign of reaction was a tightening of the lines around his mouth.

"Megan told you there's a little girl trapped with Don?" she waited for their nods of acknowledgement. "I've been trying to track down her mother from the lists of those still missing and accounted for. As you can probably imagine, everything is pretty chaotic. I haven't managed to find her yet, but at least I do have a name."

"Pardon me, but why is this important?" Charlie couldn't help his impatience. He had essential things he needed to be doing, instead of wasting precious minutes on a name.

"It was important to Don," her voice broke then. She quickly pulled herself back together. "He was very explicit about it – very concerned that we trace her. If you get the chance - _when_ you speak to him - the baby's name is Benedicta Margarita Da Silva."

"Benedicta Margarita – it means blessed," Alan was more than a little choked. He raised his head to look over at Charlie, and the tears shone brightly in his eyes. "And of course, we know Margarita - I really hope, for that poor little girl's sake, she manages to live up to her name."

"For Don's sake, too," Charlie muttered.

If he wasn't such a rational being, he might have thought this was an omen. Margaret - _one of her names was Margaret_ - Charlie felt something twist inside. He'd been so consumed by his need to save Don, that he kept disregarding the baby. As a living entity, she barely existed, she was simply a means to an end. But now, and very suddenly, she had turned into a real little person.

She was over there, trapped in the darkness with Don, and one of her given names was Margaret.

_God – what the hell was happening to him?_

His thoughts and emotions were so damned labile. Up one minute, and then down the next. He had to find a way of working efficiently, there had to be some middle ground in all this. He looked over at Liz and saw beyond the façade. She was as brittle and taut as a wire. He realised then, he wasn't the only one. They were all struggling - working on overtime – drawing on deep reserves of inner strength to cope.

"Charlie?" Megan called his name. "I'll take you and Alan over to meet John Murdoch. He's eager to hear what you have to say – he really wants to get those rescue teams inside."

Charlie braced himself, and nodded at Alan. This then, was the moment he'd been waiting for.

So much was resting on his calculations this time.

Most importantly to him, Don's life.

_**TBC**_


	9. Chapter 9

_**Benedictus**_

_In the tender compassion of our God_

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us,_

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death,_

_and to guide our feet into the way of peace._

**_From the Benedictus - Song of Zechariah - The Gospel of Luke_**

* * *

**Part Nine**

There was a sound – _god, he couldn't escape it._ It wailed like an endless siren. He tried to twist in an effort to shut out the noise, but the sudden, jerking movement hurt his head.

Truth was, if he was being honest, it wasn't only his head that was hurting. From the roots of his hair, to the tips of his toes, a sickening pain burned and pulsed through his body. It took a while before he was lucid enough to recollect where he was, and what had happened.

_It took him what seemed like forever, and even then, he couldn't be sure. _

Maybe, he should just let go.

It felt like he could if he wanted.

Give into the creeping greyness, and drift away on the tide.

_Easy_ – easy to yield - and give up the fight; to submit to the encroaching darkness. There was a part off him which wanted to do just that, and leave all his troubles behind.

There was a reason – a reason he had to stay. Why he mustn't slide down into the blackness. He couldn't recollect exactly, but it was something to do with the noise. Don struggled back up through the layers of fog, and eventually opened his eyes.

The tower block - Oasis Towers. The bomb blast and subsequent damage. Okay, it was all coming back to him now, although on balance, he'd much rather forget. Just when he'd thought it couldn't get any worse, the fates had decided to prove otherwise. The whole world had turned on its axis, and come crashing down around his ears.

They were still pinned down in the void space, but for some reason, he could see a little better. The concrete strut had shifted again, and widened the funnel of light. He didn't know whether to be grateful or not. It was a moot point to say it improved things. As a matter of fact, the extra light only served to emphasise the unholy mess they were in. Ceiling tiles and smashed, fluorescent fittings. Jagged chunks of plasterboard and masonry. They were squashed into a miniscule, triangular gap, and boxed in by tons of loose debris.

Not a collapse – but another subsidence then. The building was still intact. _Unless you counted the large lump of cement which had come into contact with his head._ Don moved more cautiously this time, and tried to take better stock of his surroundings. The vital pocket around them was diminishing; the air was thicker - less easy to breathe. They'd been lucky - _really_ lucky this time. Once again, they'd been saved by the damned beam. It lay across them like a temporary barrier and stopped an excess of rubble from pouring into the void.

_One more strike and you're out._

It was a simple fact. Grim and undeniable.

_If the strut was to give way, or move again, there wouldn't be any free space left at all._

His heart thumped in his chest like a jackhammer, and not just from blood loss and shock. For a terrible, illuminating moment, he'd been so sure it was over. The reprieve was unexpected, and nothing short of a miracle. When he considered what might have happened, he could scarcely believe they were alive.

_Alive, was a raucous understatement._

Sweetie Pie let him know, loud and clear.

Her screaming had reached a crescendo which rivalled operatic levels. It rang around the walls of their small prison space, but Don figured she was more than entitled. The baby's red-faced distress was worrying, and sent his adrenalin rocketing. _So long as she was okay_ - he told himself. He just wished it didn't hurt his sore ears.

"Hey, Sweetie?"

It was a definite no-go, and her screech reached Wagnerian heights. He tried the wiggly eyebrow thing, but for some reason, the mojo had deserted him. The words were an effort, and he was filled with dismay. He was weaker, and the awareness was frightening. He tried again with a lot more exertion. It was as much as he could do to even speak.

"Aw, come on," he rasped, pulling her in close to his chest. "It could be a lot worse, you know."

He could have sworn then, she looked at him indignantly. She screwed up her face and screamed louder. Don had a sudden guilty inspiration, but what the hell, why not give it a go?

_"Fuck,"_ he tested, experimentally.

A part of him cringed as he said it. _Don Eppes - the moral exemplar._ Under any other circumstances, he would be appalled, but he was desperate and it _had_ worked before. There was a beat of blessed silence as she paused, mid-wail, and unscrewed her pansy brown eyes. She delayed for a tenth of a second, as though waiting for him to say more. When he didn't, her tiny face crumpled, and her bottom lip wobbled, dangerously. She inhaled sharply, before opening her mouth, and shrieking like a furious banshee.

"Fuck, fuck_, I shouldn't be saying this."_ Don let out a string of expletives. He had a brief, recriminatory vision of Alan, holding a very large bar of soap. "Fuck, Sweetie, you have to promise me, you won't breathe a word of this outside."

The baby hiccupped, and took in a big gulp of air. Her lips still trembled, but at least she stopped crying. She stared up at Don for a second or two and then reached out with a star like hand. He closed his eyes, and allowed her to pat his face, submitting to her gentle exploration. A startling wash of protectiveness, and total, gob-smacking trust, had a flip-flop effect on his insides.

_Well, whadya know - the swearing thing?_

It would have to stay their little secret. One thing, for certain, he would omit from his statement, if they ever made it out of here alive. For all the time they were trapped down here, Sweetie was his on a short-term basis. His charge and responsibility; his little, _Sweetie-shaped_, temporary loan. She gurgled and beamed, as if giving her approval, and thoughtfully tugged the end of his nose.

He lay still for a while, just holding her close, drained and relieved by the unexpected silence. It was tempting to close his eyes again, he felt insensate and too weary to move. For some reason, the pain was fading away, and he wasn't in such relentless discomfort. Instead, his limbs were almost log-like, numb and heavy with a worrying lassitude.

Don was neither naïve or stupid.

The lack of pain could only be a false dawn.

His medical knowledge was slightly better than reasonable. It had to be, because of his job. He'd re-upped his First Aid fairly recently, and he was way beyond feeling alarmed. His body was close to shutting down, and his circulation was failing. He was undoubtedly in severe clinical shock now - his heart struggling to keep up with the pace. It was simple and obvious really. _Oh yeah, he knew the bio-mechanics._ Not enough volume of fluids, equals a weakening circulatory system. A deteriorating heart-rate, and deadly lack of oxygen, to the vital organs and brain.

_Don knew, by now, he'd lost far too much blood._

It was viscous, dark and sticky all around him. His shirt had stiffened with it, fused against his body. He could trace its powerful, metallic scent, and taste the sharp ferrous tang.

_If they didn't come soon, he was going to die._

He had no clear idea of his injuries, but he really didn't have to be a genius. The solution wasn't hard or unforthcoming, the answer, grimly easy to obtain.

_There was something . . . something he had to do. _

Something significant he should be doing.

He hitched Sweetie in a little closer, and tucked the trailing ends of blanket around her. In the process, his fingers brushed against the cell phone, and it all fell back into place. Of course, the _something _he should have been doing, was calling Megan and keeping her up to date.

"Sorry, Shrimp."

He had to shift her again to grasp hold of his phone, and he did it as carefully as possible. The last thing he wanted or needed right now, was to make her start squawking again. He managed to lift the cell awkwardly, but his actions were slow and laborious. It felt like he was moving in outer space, and normal gravity had plummeted away.

_Press the button – just press the button. _

It was simple enough in theory. So why the hell couldn't he do it?

For the life of him, he couldn't get his fingers to work, or stop their incessant shaking.

"Megan?"

Like before, she picked up the call at once. Almost before the first ring was over. His sense of relief was overwhelming - something seemed to catch and hitch inside his chest.

"Damn, but it's good to hear your voice," her own sounded pretty shaky. "Hell, I know you're the strong and silent type, but don't you think this is taking it too far?"

He managed a small smile at her snarkiness, but the time for banter was over. It didn't matter was happening on the outside; there were some things he badly needed to get said. Slowly, but very surely, his injuries were draining the life from him. It was time to face up to reality. He had a few hours maximum left.

"Megan," he repeated her name.

To his frustration, it was all he could manage, right now. Dear God, he was being so pathetic. He felt light-headed, and kind of spacey, as though he was about to fly away. The irony of it wasn't lost on him. He was pinned down – entombed in the darkness. Wasn't likely he'd get another chance anytime soon, to look up and see the sky.

"Don, are you there - can you answer me? Don, _please,_ can you just keep talking?"

He could hear she was starting to get frantic now. There was no attempt to keep things light-hearted. She was bright enough to pick up the inference of any words he couldn't manage to say. He took a breath, and was pleased and slightly surprised, to note that it didn't hurt him. Nonetheless, it remained a curious fact, he _still _didn't have enough air.

"Yeah, I'm here," he did as she ordered.

"Thank God," she still sounded shaky. "There was another minor subsidence - I'm guessing you probably noticed. Not too bad, all things considered, but it's been three hours since you last checked in."

He grimaced. "Tell me about it."

_Three hours._ No wonder she was freaked with him. Under the circumstances, he totally sympathised. She'd probably figured, quite logically, the subsidence had buried them both alive. He was relieved to disabuse her of that grim thought, but on the other hand, three hours wasn't good. It was going to delay things even more. Don knew the odds were stacking up against him. As a result of the second subsidence, the rescue teams would face a longer wait outside.

"No closer, huh?"

He knew precisely what her answer would be. There wasn't really any point in the question. It was just so damned good to hear her talking. _So good to hear another grown-up, human voice. _

"Maybe," her response surprised him. "Listen, you're not going to like this. I have someone here who really wants to talk to you. _You _need to stay calm about this - I'm just going to let him explain."

Okay, his brain might not be up to full speed, but he didn't have to be psychic. From the second Megan said he might not like it, he guessed _it _was Charlie and dad. Anger struggled with a sense of resignation. He should have known there would be no holding them. Charlie must have used his security clearance to brush the usual protocol aside. So much for obeying his instructions and keeping them safe and away from here. He was going to do some serious ass-kicking when they eventually dragged him out of this hole.

_Just who the hell was he kidding?_

His traitorous body was against him. A lack of time and a loss of blood.

_He was not getting out of here alive._

"Donnie?"

_Oh God, this was just what he needed._ Don was surprised by a rush of emotion. Must be the shock or the loss of blood, but for a second, he could have cried. He felt defenceless – ridiculously vulnerable – as though his layers had been peeled back like an onion. Unaccustomed tears pricked the back of his eyes, at the familiar sound of dads voice.

"Yeah, dad," he tried his best to sound much more alert, but knew he was failing dismally. A great wave of weariness washed over him. He was tired – just so damned tired. "They shouldn't have let you anywhere near. You should have stayed at home."

"Hush, my son, just save your strength," _Big surprise_ - Alan totally ignored him. He shushed him as though he was six years old, in his patented_ 'father knows best'_ voice. "Charlie's with the lead engineers right now, and they're working to secure the tower. We've got experienced rigging crews waiting to go – soon as the Tower Crane's in position. You have to hold on a little while longer - until we can get you outside."

_What the hell was dad talking about? _

The words washed right over Don's head.

"Dad, please - "

His frailty was so damned obvious. It must be plain, even over the cell phone. A part of him really despised the thought of putting his father through this. There were so many things he wanted to say, and so little time left to say them. And that was always assuming he could get his dumb, clumsy mouth to work. There was something wet running down the side of his face. _Could be more blood,_ he supposed. Even now, lying here in the darkness, he was embarrassed by the thought it was tears.

"Oh, Donnie," the forced heartiness vanished from Alan's voice. For a second, his anguish betrayed him. "You have to hold on, do you hear me? You brother, Megan and everyone, they're all working so hard to get you out of there."

_He knew they were, of course he did._

Megan would fight for him, tooth and claw.

And now, Charlie was out there, Charlie and dad. He had paternal love and genius on his side.

"Charlie," he breathed his brother's name, aware of a raw twist of sorrow. He felt as though they would never get the chance to rebuild those crumbling bridges.

Suddenly, it was vitally important to let Charlie know he loved him. All the recent crap, nothing else mattered; he had to tell Charlie he cared. Their lives had forked, and taken parallel courses, woven and turning like a tangle of roots. Sometimes knotted and intertwined, sometimes separate and barely touching. All the years of confliction, and even buried resentment, those twisted roots still grew from the same tree.

"Charlie," he managed to say it again. "Dad, need to talk to Charlie . . ."

He blinked away some of the moisture that persisted in running down his face. _Not tears then_ – part of his brain detached – _must be blood from his latest head-wound._ It puddled around him and wetted his hair, copious and seeping freely. Damp between his cheek and the floor, it was strange that it felt so cold.

"It's all right, Don, just keep talking to me." Alan sounded odd, like he was playing for time. "They tell me you're quite the hero. That you saved a little girl's life?"

"Sweetie Pie," he murmured, vaguely, stroking the back of her little soft head.

_Dear God, if only dad knew the truth_. The irony of it hurt him. There was nothing remotely heroic about dissociative suicide. He'd been determined to evacuate the Crèche, but it had not been his foremost objective. He'd wanted to reach the Parking Lot, and forestall the explosives truck in time.

When he'd first been handed the baby, he'd thought of her as a mini annoyance. Not so much a small person, as a major hindrance to his plans. She wriggled, and patted his cheek again, and Don felt his insides contract. In the space of merely a few, short hours, his entire perception had changed. It was funny how life could sneak up on you – how it could rope you in, and take you unawares.

This tiny girl had captured his heart. No question of doubt about it. She'd side-swiped the ground from under his feet, with just one look from her grave, pansy eyes. This was why he needed to stay with her. _Why he was determined to fight._ To stave off the waiting darkness for as long as he possibly could.

He endeavoured to pull himself together, and remembered he was using up his batteries. He could hear dad's worried voice calling him, on the other end of the line.

He made a supreme effort and tried again. "Dad – is Charlie there?"

"He – he's busy, right now – with the engineers. Across the other side of the cordon. With any luck, you can speak to him in person soon; it looks like things are getting underway. You should see the size of this Tower Block Crane . . ."

The words lay loud and unspoken between them. _For some reason, Charlie didn't want to talk to him._ Don lay there, in silence, and felt his heart plummet. _Please, God, no. Oh, fuck, not again._ Dad was covering - covering and stalling. He had a flashback to the time of his mother's death, and Charlie's obsession with P v NP.

_Surely it couldn't be happening now? _

Charlie had changed so radically – he was no longer the same, damaged person. He'd come to terms with his grief, and moved on with his life, taking positive strides into the future.

_No, this was not about P v NP._

The truth was a whole lot simpler. It was obvious, when you thought about it logically. The answer stared him right in the face. Charlie was still pissed off with him. _Even worse than that – downright angry._ The silent estrangement between them had festered and gone on too long. Don was almost surprised by the anguish he felt. He'd thought, by now, he was immune to all feeling. The endless onslaught of pain and terror and shock, had almost rendered him numb.

_Cold, it was getting so cold in here. _

The constant trickle of water wasn't helping.

_Dear God, why weren't they coming for them?_

Dad was still muttering about some damned crane . . .

_What the hell, did he just say the water?_

The realisation shook him with dread. _Not tears, not blood, but water._ As a result of the further subsidence damage, the fucking void space was filling with water. The leak came from somewhere above his head. Most likely a burst mains pipe. Not too fast, but at a frighteningly constant rate, as it ran down the sloping strut. He was so cold and shocked, he hadn't noticed before. His clothes were already damp with it. They were lying in a shallow puddle of wet - no wonder poor Sweetie had complained.

_A little knowledge was a dangerous thing._

Who the hell wrote these clichéd homilies?

Well, right now, Don wished he was ignorant. He wished he knew nothing at all. _Mexico City, oh yeah, he remembered._ They were in a new and terrible danger. As though being blown up and crushed wasn't enough, now it seemed, they were going to drown. He twisted the top of his body around as far as was humanly possible. Not exactly the easiest thing in the world, when you were pinned down by a godamned, tower block.

_To think that, in his arrogance, he'd thought himself beyond the pain_.

All in all, it took him three feeble attempts. That was, if you discounted the breathing break. Right now, Don was a man on a mission; he couldn't afford to pass out again. He held onto the cell phone one-handed, and eased himself carefully over. He couldn't take a chance on it getting wet - the thought of losing its lifeline, was unconscionable.

Alan was shouting now – _frantically_ – but Don knew he had to move Sweetie.

He managed to heave her up onto his body, and out of the seeping dampness. To his relief, only the fringes of her blanket were wet, the pink beanie and her clothes remained dry. He tucked the ends of the blanket through the straps of his vest, like some sort of makeshift chrysalis. However much Sweetie wriggled and struggled, she could not roll down off his chest.

_Just a minute – he only needed a minute._

Don knew he was close to losing it. Agony ripped like fire through his abdomen, and spots shimmied and danced in front of his eyes. Sweetie was fretful and grizzling again, clearly indignant at being manhandled. Her protests and mewling cries of distress pierced through the dark curtain of pain.

"Dad - "

Somehow, he got the cell back up to his ear. The next words would not come easy. He wanted to tell Alan he loved him. _He wanted to tell him goodbye_. Such a simple word - so loaded with tenderness. So finite in its import and meaning. Don felt something wet run down his face, and this time, he knew it _was_ tears.

"Donnie?" Alan responded at once. "Oh God, Donnie, please don't do that. You stopped talking, I couldn't hear you. _I thought _– what I thought doesn't matter - is everything okay?"

"No dad," this time he was honest. There was no longer any point in lying. Despite all their heroic efforts, they were not going to save him in time. "I've lost too much blood . . . I'm losing it. Not going to . . . _not going to make it."_

"Don't say that!" Alan's voice was fierce. "Don't you give up, do you hear me, you have to stay strong and fight this. Don, you have to make me a promise right now, what will Charlie and I do without you?"

_You'll be okay,_ Don thought, sadly. _You're both so much stronger than you think you are. I'm proud of you, dad, I'm proud of you both. You don't need me anymore._

This was ironic, and harder than anything. He hated putting Alan through it. As he lay in his blood, on the cusp of his life, he realised how much he wanted to stay.

"Hey, dad," he almost choked on the words. "Sorry, I'm pretty crap at this. Some things . . . some things I wanted to say . . . like you know I love you, right?"

"My son," Alan was crying. "Please, Donnie, don't say goodbye."

"It's okay," _and it was._ It really was, in a way, although he hated hearing Alan's distress. "Tell Charlie – tell Charlie no P vNP thing – or else I'll come back and haunt his geek ass."

"Tell him yourself – why don't you tell him yourself? He's out here, working so hard for you. You have to hold on a while longer. Think of the baby, of little Benedicta Margaret. Please Don, you have to try."

The baby, his tiny princess.

_Did dad just call her Benedicta Margaret?_

He could have cried then, at the poignancy of it. Of all the given names, it had to be _that_ name.

One last thing – one vital promise. He had to do everything he could for her. The water – the leaking mains pipe - he had to let dad know. _He was tired, oh god, he was so dog tired._ All the images were mixed up and blurred. Concentrate – he had to concentrate. There was still something he needed to say.

"I've tried so hard," he whispered. "For the princess – for all of my life."

"I know you have, Don, you've always been so strong." Alan sounded as though his heart was breaking. "Your mother and I, we're so very proud of you. I love you, and I don't want to lose you. I can't – _I don't_ want to let go."

"There's water," Don frowned with the effort. "A burst pipe . . . you have to promise to save her. Will do my best for as long as I can . . . after that, it's up to you."

"Don, can you hear me? Answer me! Did you say there's a leak, there's water? _Don – please, Don – just keep talking!"_ Alan was beside himself now.

"Promise . . . _promise_ . . ." he murmured the word, kept repeating it over and over.

For some strange reason, he couldn't stop saying it.

_The cell phone slipped out of his hand._

_**TBC**_


	10. Chapter 10

**_Benedictus_**

_In the tender compassion of our God _

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us, _

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet into the way of peace. _

From the **Benedictus Song of Zechariah - The Gospel of Luke**

* * *

**Part Ten**

"Is everybody absolutely clear about this?" John Murdoch, the Incident Commander, looked around the impromptu briefing in the Portahut. His face was grim and determined, with absolutely no room for compromise. "For the record, I just want to reiterate, this is a reconnaissance, an exploratory operation. Any sign of insurmountable danger, and you _will _abort and turn back."

A brief silence, and Charlie held his breath. He could almost hear the clock ticking. It had been a little over an hour since they'd lost all contact with Don. It wasn't long, in the wider scheme of things – not if you considered the bigger picture - but for some reason, his world had contracted to pinpoint size, until the only picture left was Don.

_Seventy nine minutes and fifty-three seconds._

To Charlie, it seemed like a lifetime.

The worse thing being, that maybe it was. To all those still trapped under the rubble.

"Clear, Sir," it was Colby Granger who answered. He spoke up for the rest of his team. "We'll use the Snake Eye to penetrate the building, and stay in contact the entire time."

"Snake Eye?"

Alan asked the question. He was pale and his voice sounded shaky. Not since the last days of mom's illness, had Charlie seen him looking so old.

"A portable, hand-held camera, at the end of a flexible scope. It's designed to allow visual access to impenetrable and hard to reach areas. Means we can carryout a full void space search without having to cut through every obstacle." Granger held up the unit to demonstrate. "It saves time, and wasted manpower - reduces the danger of creating structural weakness by unnecessarily cutting through debris."

"We'll also be using a TPL – a trapped person locator," one of the Fire Department volunteers stepped forward. "A state of the art, piece of equipment. It can pick up on the sound of someone breathing through a standard-built, brick or concrete wall. Although we have a location from the GPS tracker, this baby is the icing on the cake."

For once, Charlie wasn't interested. He didn't care about the technical stuff. He looked across at the six man, volunteer team, and just wished they'd hurry up and get inside. And did the guy really say _'baby?'_ He could hardly believe how crass it sounded. Under the current circumstances, it was a pretty bad slip of the tongue. For a moment, there was a communal silence, as they remembered how desperate the stakes were. A human life was a human life, but the word _baby_ was really emotive. He watched, as the penny eventually dropped, and the man flushed scarlet with embarrassment. He raised his hands in speechless apology when he realised what he'd just said.

Charlie drifted, and let his mind wander, as the piece of equipment was demonstrated. He was consumed with worry, and a deep sense of guilt, which gnawed at his gut like an ulcer. In the minutes before they'd lost contact with Don, he'd refused to talk to him over the cell phone. Not avoidance or deliberate callousness, oh God, anything but. It was more a sense of crippling anxiety, and he'd been so busy right at that moment . . .

He'd been so afraid of the fallout.

So frightened of losing his focus.

To talk to Don . . . to know he was suffering . . . it was futile, he did not have the time. He needed to keep control of his faculties, and every ounce of concentration he could muster. His priority was saving the building itself – in preventing yet another subsidence. In his head, the two were linked and indivisible – saving the building and saving Don.

He was terrified, if he spoke to his brother, then all the carefully controlled façade would fall apart.

It seemed eminently sensible on the face of things.

_And then the other end of the line had gone dead. _

According to dad, Don had been rambling. He'd barely been holding it together. He'd managed to stay on the line long enough to tell them the void space was flooding. After that, dad had been frantic . . . he'd shouted and called out Don's name; but although the line remained open, all they'd heard was the deathly quiet.

There was nothing more than a faint buzz of static. Even the baby stopped yelling. Her cries were weaker now, frail and mewling, not unlike those of a lost kitten.

It was this sound which scared Charlie most of all – that struck fear into his heart like a dagger. There was no way Don would ignore her distress - not if he was all right.

He might as well face it, Don wasn't all right. He was pinned down and desperately injured. If the rest of the building didn't fall on his head, there was a very real chance he would drown.

The Tower Block derrick had been moved into position, and they were waiting for some high-tensile, steel cabling. They would use a system of weights and counter balances, to hold the remaining floors in situ. In a way, it was very convenient, he supposed that was one way of describing it. The crane had been brought in under escort from a building site just off Bunker Hill. If there hadn't been one quite so close to hand, then the project would have been far more vulnerable. Their chances of success would have shortened with each and every hour that passed by.

Charlie watched the vast monster swing into place with barely concealed impatience. He didn't doubt for a moment, whether or not his algorithm would work. He knew the numbers were right, so the plan would succeed. He'd factored in every equation. Every integer and random variable; he couldn't afford to leave anything to chance. All they'd needed was the right equipment. It was a fine day, and there was very little wind speed. Even the weather gods were behaving themselves, and for once, appeared to be on their side.

It was time which remained the enemy. It marched against them, relentless and inexorable. The infra-structure had been weakened by the latest subsidence, and would not withstand another collapse. The construction teams needed to get started right now. To begin while there was still enough daylight.

He sighed at the inevitability, he was obsessed with the _'Five Day Window.'_ If they could stay within the _'Golden Day of Survival,'_ there was still a chance of saving Don's life. They were transporting in some giant floodlights to enable them to work on through the darkness, but they were snarled up in the horrendous traffic, at least an hour's journey away.

He glanced impatiently down at his wristwatch again. The ticking, second-hand seemed to mock him. It wasn't just chronicling the passage of time, but the passing away of Don's life. Once they knew the mains pipes were leaking, the situation just ramped up to critical. If Colby failed in his mission to locate them, the void would flood, and they would both end up dead.

"Hey, Charlie?"

It was Colby, standing in front of him. His rescue team was ready for departure. Charlie realised he'd been so preoccupied, he'd missed the end of the briefing. He swallowed hard, and stuck out his hand. As gestures went, it seemed such a small one.

_What in heaven's name, could he say to this man, who had volunteered to lay his life on the line?_

"Thanks for doing this," his voice sounded raspy, like he had a bad dose of laryngitis. Either that, or a nicotine habit; at least one or two packs of twenty a day. "Dad and I – we really appreciate it."

Granger grinned, and put a hand on his shoulder. "All that time spent grubbing around in dark tunnels? Knew it might come in handy one day."

Charlie nodded, and shuddered, slightly. As concepts went, he could barely imagine it. He'd read something once, he remembered, about the tunnel rats in Vietnam. He and Larry had discussed it at CalSci, during the latter's sojourn down in the steam tunnels. They'd been sat outside drinking coffee - the random memory made him wince now. It was all well and good in the bright, open air, with green leaves rustling softly above them. The conversation had moved onto the system of caves in the hinterland of Afghanistan.

It turned out Colby had spent time in the tunnels of Zabul, and was trained in collapse and rescue situations. When he'd heard about the change in Don's state of affairs, he'd harassed Megan to lead a rescue mission inside. John Murdoch had agreed to a six man team; ostensibly, a reconnaissance duty. It hadn't taken long to choose five volunteers out of the crowd of those they'd had to turn aside.

Other than Colby, there were two paramedics, both of them ex-army qualified. The team was made up by three Fire Department guys, who were in charge of the specialised equipment. They'd gained hands-on experience out in Kashmir, in the wake of the 2005 earthquake. They were all reassuringly burly, and looked as though they knew what they were doing. The 'point' team would be followed into the ground floor of the building, by a '_cutting crew,'_ also comprised of volunteers. The team would _'cut through and shore-up,' _as they went along, using pneumatic pipes and freshly cut timber. There was a temporary lumber yard already in place and working, with carpenters and truck loads of wood. The whole of the busy, cordoned-off area, was developing a life all of its own.

"We'll get to him as fast as we can," Colby tightened his grip on Charlie's shoulder. "Thanks to the GPS tracker, we pretty much have a pinpoint location."

"Don wouldn't want you to take any chances."

He almost hated himself for saying it. He had no real right to speak for Don, and the words sounded trite and hypocritical, even as they left his mouth. All he wanted – _all he really craved_ – was to see his brother pulled out alive. And besides, Colby knew what he was doing. He was trained and well aware of the risks.

"It's okay," Colby looked at him, seriously. "We all know exactly what we're doing. Been there, done it, and got the tee-shirt, we're not precisely going in blind. As for Don, well, I kinda owe him one, and you should know we don't leave our own behind."

"Be careful," this time, Charlie nodded, and cleared his throat. He had rediscovered his vocal chords. He was heartened, and not a little surprised, by the newfound strength in his voice. "Hurry."

"Granger," Megan sounded steady, and remarkably in control, as she looked across at her team member. "I want a blow by blow account of every damned step you take in there. As much as it pains me to say it, I want to keep hearing your voice. Just remember what John Murdoch said – you get out at the first sign of trouble."

"I heard."

Colby flicked his eyes over at Charlie. Too many words went unsaid between them. They both knew the failure of this mission, would in all likelihood, signify Don's death.

"Good luck."

Her guard wobbled, and fell a little, then. In the end, it was her decision. They were breaking with established protocol, and it was a gamble that might not pay off. Charlie watched as Colby turned to walk away. He said something jokingly to David. Both men stood and laughed for a second or two, the forced high spirits masking their fears.

He realised then, they were doing this for Don. They were risking it all for his brother. He was being given a rare glimpse of the closeness between them, and for a moment, it fairly took his breath away. He'd always known Don kept his team pretty tight. It something he prided himself on. But with the Janus List affair at the end of last year, it appeared to have blown up in his face. The shock had impacted on all of them, and Don had been taciturn and grumpy. It was worse than that, Charlie saw now, with hindsight. Looking back, Don had been depressed.

_Oh God,_ the truth began to filter through.

He understood.

He felt the fog had been lifted.

All this . . . the team . . . it was his brother's legacy, and Charlie was fiercely proud.

He felt a deep and abiding flush of shame, as he recalled his earlier sense of pique and anger. The pictures shifted, and coalesced in his head, and he saw it all with a crystal-sharp clarity. Don's actions weren't born out of pettiness or spite, but a profound and abiding sense of duty. How else could he have earned this respect and allegiance, or forged such a close knit team?

'_He's in charge, you know?'_

At face value, such a simple statement, but now, dad's earlier words came back to haunt him. He'd pooh-poohed them in the heat of self-righteous zeal, too mired down in his own resentment. Dear God, the reality of it hurt him. _He was the lucky one – he'd always been the lucky one._ At the end of the day, he could walk away.

_He could turn around and say no._

Most of the time, he didn't, of course. He enjoyed the sense of purpose it gave him. He got a kick out of deciphering the puzzles, and seeing them resolve inside his head. It was all about the intellectual challenge, as much as about helping Don. It was true that some cases got to him. They made him feel anguished and vulnerable. He saw the dark underbelly of humanity with all of its corruption and vice.

He breezed in and out with his laptop – but he could always choose to go home to his life.

_Not Don – not for his brother. _

The FBI_ was_ Don's life.

Don looked at the bodies and saw all the blood. He got threatened, insulted and shot at. He stayed cool, and kept his own face impassive, as he rang doorbells and broke bad news to loved ones. For very little kudos and bucket loads of flak, he worked every godamned hour under the sun.

_He got out of bed and left home each day, knowing full well it might be his last. _

Charlie looked up at the broken building. He wasn't really much of one for metaphors. As a mathematician, he preferred the use of examples when it came to explaining a theory. _Nonetheless,_ he couldn't help sighing_; the whole day had been one long simile._ He was living through a nightmare reel of images, and each one seemed to hide a double meaning.

The tower block soared up into the sky – so vast, it seemed impossible it might crumble. And yet, still, there was a very real danger, it might buckle and collapse under the strain. He'd seen this building so many times, walked its plaza's, and driven around it. He'd taken its strength and majesty so much for granted, and never once assumed it might fall.

The plumes of smoke rose vertically and added to the layer of heat haze.

It was surreal, and suddenly disturbing, to stand here and watch them drift away.

_"Don't go,"_ he whispered the words out loud.

It was so stupid – of course, the smoke couldn't hear him.

He felt irrelevant and totally powerless; _he couldn't convince it to stay._

"Smoke's rising vertically – that's a good sign." Alan stepped up beside him, his words virtually a mirror image of his thoughts. He shaded a hand over his forehead, and stared up into the sky. "At least the weather's still on our side."

"Yes," Charlie continued to watch the smoke.

"I've been speaking to John Murdoch. The steel cabling just arrived. There's hardly any wind speed to speak of – the rigging teams can get started right away."

"That's good."

"Charlie," Alan placed a loving hand on his shoulder. "I know it's hard, but we have to stay hopeful. We both have to keep believing that Don will make it out alive."

They stood back, hurriedly, as an ambulance drove past, and powered up the whine of its sirens. Charlie watched it weave towards the cordons; the garish flash of the red lights hurt his head. They were still pulling people from the surface rubble, and the ground crews had retrieved another victim. Either that, or by a small miracle, someone had made it out under their own steam.

Not Don, though.

_Not his brother. _

Physically, he wasn't going anywhere. He was buried down there in the darkness, and pinned down by a concrete beam. _Hidden away under the wreckage, in grave pain, and out of the light_. Charlie blinked, and ran his hand over his face. The acrid sting of rising ash hurt his eyes.

"Did you hear me, son?" Alan prompted him, gently.

"You know, I always worried about him," Charlie nodded, and spoke in the abstract. "There were some nights . . . fairly often, in-fact . . . some nights, when I couldn't sleep. I was terrified every time the phone rang, when he first came home from Albuquerque."

"Well, considering what he does for a living, I happen to think it's only natural. It's not like he's an accountant, or working the nine to five."

"You don't understand," Charlie dragged his eyes off the column of smoke. He pulled away - he didn't want comfort. What he wanted was a chance to explain things. To let dad know how he felt. "Over the years, it's gotten a lot easier. Especially once I began consulting. Don's good at his job, and I saw that first hand. I guess I kinda got complacent."

"Maybe we all did," Alan responded, soberly. "And, you know, he's partially responsible. He never wants us to worry about him. That's why he always plays things down."

"He has no right," Charlie murmured. "He has no right. Does he really believe he isn't worth it? That in the end, he means so little to us, we can just pick-up and get on with our lives?"

"It's not that – he doesn't think like that. It really isn't the answer - " locating the right words was an effort. "Hidden under the hard shell, Don's always been a dreamer. He finds it easy, sometimes a little _too_ easy, to imagine another person's pain. Now, you and me, we're the practical ones. We're logical and pretty pragmatic. But Don – well, he's just like his mother. It's quite uncanny, she was exactly the same."

"Mom," he barely whispered the word.

Dad was right; it was Don who was like her. The wash of similarities haunted him. He'd inherited her strength and secretive side, and her capacity for dealing with pain. _Oh God, mom_ . . . all the old memories came flooding back. And now, the new ones cut a fresh swathe beside them. _Don and mom,_ of course, there was the musical thing, and then they were surprisingly spiritual. There were the times when they needed to be left alone, both so private and self-contained. He thought back to his recent brush with death, and his anger at Don's subsequent reaction. He was seeing things in slightly new perspective now. Charlie felt his gut twist with shame.

"You know," Alan sounded almost wistful, "I've been thinking a lot about your mother. The baby's name, Benedicta Margarita, I can't help wondering if it's some sort of sign."

Charlie bit back a retort, and then was silent. It was practically too easy to disparage it. What gave him any right to scoff at dad, when exactly the same thought had crossed his mind?

_If dad wanted to believe in portents – then who was he to deny him?_

_If it gave him a grain of hope to cling onto,_ Charlie merely shook his head and sighed.

"It's a good thing, dad, _it has to be._ What you were saying about Don earlier? So long as he has the baby to take care of, we both know he'll fight like hell to stay alive."

Liz Warner was talking to Megan, staring over in his and dad's direction. It looked like the agent had some news; he had a pretty good idea what it was. Sure enough, they were headed his way, and Charlie felt his heart sink a little. _Were they stupid – why didn't they understand - he did not want to do this right now. _

It was time for a quick getaway.

Time he sought out John Murdoch.

Despite all his best intentions, he couldn't deal with someone else's pain.

"We located the baby's mother," Megan came straight to the point. "She wants to know if she can speak with you, but we can't let her in through the cordons."

"I can't leave here," Charlie said, quickly. "There's too much I have to do."

"I can call her," Liz interrupted. "Please – it would really help."

"It's okay," Alan reached for the phone. "You go ahead, Charlie, I'll do it." He looked across at Liz for some guidance. "What's her name, what does she want me to say?"

Charlie stood, wracked with indecision. He was torn between his duty and his sorrow. If it was Don here – _if it was his brother _– then he wouldn't let dad shoulder the brunt of it. He raised his head, and watched the smoke wisp away, curling higher up into the atmosphere. There was nothing he could do to stop it. _Nothing he could do to make it stay._

The bitter truth was, Don was not here.

_There was a chance he never would be again. _

"No," he stepped forward, and intercepted the cell phone, taking it out of a surprised Alan's hand. He just had to get on with it quickly, before he had a chance to change his mind. "Hello, this is Charlie Eppes. I'm Special Agent Don Eppes' brother."

"His brother?" She sounded pretty scared, and just as uncertain as he was. It was a big relief she wasn't crying, he didn't know if he could handle feminine tears. There was a brief moment of silence before she spoke again, but then amazingly under the circumstances, her tone was quiet and unexpectedly calm. "I'm Marissa, Marissa Da Silva. It's my baby that's trapped inside."

"I'm sorry," he closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. "Don will _– I promise_ he'll look after her. I know my brother, Mrs Da Silva, he'll defend your little girl with his life."

"It sounds as though he already did, and please, just call me Marissa. I just wanted – _I wanted to thank you._ Agent Warner and some of the Crèche workers told me, he could have made it to safety in time."

Charlie swallowed, this was proving predictably hard. _What the hell – he'd known it wouldn't be easy._ He held onto the cell a little tighter, and strove to remain composed. This kind of conversation was bread and butter to Don, as it must be to all of his colleagues. He opened his eyes, and saw Megan watching him, a look of approval and gentle encouragement on her face.

"It wouldn't have crossed his mind for a second. There's no way he would have left her behind."

"Your brother – may I call him Don?"

"Please," Charlie gave her permission.

"Don thinks – Agent Warner told me – he thinks Benedicta's unhurt?"

"Trust me, Marissa, if Don said that, then I can assure you he's probably right . . . " His voice cracked then. "You see, he's a typical big brother. Over protective, and a little bossy, always thinks he knows best."

It sounded so simple when he said it now. In-fact, it couldn't be clearer. So then, why had it seemed so opaque before, and why in God's name had he refused to see it?

_Amita_ - Amita had told him.

To her it was all so straightforward.

'_You'll __always__ be Don's little brother, however much he may respect what you do.'_

"I wish for your sake, he'd made it out of there," Marissa was talking again. Charlie's words seemed to have helped her, she was generous, and trying hard to be brave. "But if my little girl has to be there, in all that - trapped in that terrible darkness - I thank God, he didn't leave her alone. That he left her with a good man like your brother."

"We're going to save them. To get them out of there." Charlie spoke with sudden resolution. "I promise we're doing all we can, to get them_ both_ out alive."

He was no longer sure whom he was trying to convince, but truth be told, he no longer cared. In a strange way, he felt linked to Marissa, and to say the words out loud gave him strength. He'd done the right thing, he was glad of it now. It had helped – _really helped_ – him to talk to her.

_It's what Don would have done._

The thought leaped out, and ambushed him then, and Charlie knew it went without saying.

For a brief second, he felt very close to his brother. Pride and grief intermingled as one.

He'd fronted up - taken responsibility.

He felt as though Don would have approved.

_He looked back towards the tower block, and the fading smoke drifted away. _

_**TBC**_


	11. Chapter 11

**_Benedictus_**

* * *

_In the tender compassion of our God_

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us,_

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet into the way of peace._

_From the **Benedictus - Song of Zecheriah - The Gospel of Luke**_

* * *

**Part Eleven**

It was cold – so dammed cold in here – down at the bottom of the ocean. He'd had more than enough, he decided, time to kick out and swim back to the shore. There was only one problem, as far as he could see, a heavy weight lying on top of him. It was immovable, bulky and intransigent; _so much for escaping from the darkness._

Then he remembered, he was a prisoner.

He couldn't move, he was trapped and in pain.

He was still a while longer, just biding his time. It was easier to lie here, simply drifting. Right now, it felt like too much effort to lift his tired lids, and open his eyes.

He was lying in a pool of black water, coolly chilly and smelling slightly metallic. It circled around his head like a halo, lifting his hair like sea anemone fronds. The dampness had soaked up through the layers of his clothing, saturating most of what he was wearing. Or at least, he hoped it was the water. On the other hand, it could be the blood.

It came back then, with a blade sharp clarity. The most lucid he'd been for a long time. He wondered if he'd reached the end of the road – he'd heard of this sort of thing happening before. _Not just heard_, the sudden memory hurt him. He hadn't cared to think about it for a long time. He had a crystal clear vision of the Craftsman, on a warm, hazy evening in June.

_The light, green fragrance of the freesias he'd taken up to his parent's bedroom. _

She'd been waiting for him with a wonderful smile, her eyes, clear and bright and unclouded. It was the first time in weeks he'd seen her so full of life; so released of the intractable pain. He'd been tired and depressed after a hellish day in court. The wheels of justice had turned against him. His feet had dragged as he climbed the stairs which led along the oak panelled landing.

He'd stood in the doorway and caught his breath. She looked fine-boned and beautiful, like a dancer. She'd reached out a slender hand to him, the brave, purple scarf around her head. They'd talked and laughed just like the old times, and he'd sat up beside her on the bed. She teased him, and mourned the loss of his baby curls, and ran her hand over his well-controlled hair. After a while, like magic, his dejection and weariness lifted, and eventually the shadows had lengthened, and chased the last, mellow sunlight from the room.

She died just before the sunrise.

Simply fell asleep and never woke again.

"Mom?"

He didn't know if she heard him, but right now, he felt kind of close to her. Perhaps this dying thing wasn't so bad after all, if she was waiting on the other side. There was no answer, of course, although he listened hard, just the ominous trickle of water. It sounded faster now, and increased in volume, as it ran down and dripped off the beam.

He could feel it moving around his ears. Must be lying in at least three inches. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious, but it was rapidly filling the void space. He guessed there must be some seepage, but it was collecting, not draining away.

The dark water was anything but fragrant. It smelled suspiciously stagnant and malodorous. He didn't want to speculate on its origin, or worry about what nasties it might contain. He knew they would have turned off the utilities, so the water came from inside the building. Probably the storage tanks, or vast yards of piping, that linked the heating and washroom facilities.

_Not good to be laid here with an open wound._

It was a little late to stress out about hygiene. There was nothing to be done in any case, and he tried not to think too hard about it.

_Not long – it wouldn't be long now. _

He'd always heard drowning was painless.

_Yeah, right,_ he thought with the wryest of twists, _and he'd also been told pigs could fly . . ._

He lay on his back, and stared straight ahead. There was still light coming in from somewhere. Maybe, _just maybe, _he could see it – if he tried hard, and really strained his eyes?

The baby murmured and moved against him, but for now, she was blessedly quiet. He held her in place with a shaking hand. She was his own, little Benedicta Margaret. He didn't truly get the chance to absorb it before, but the poignancy of her name was amazing. This baby – this small scrap of Sweetie-Pie - it was as though someone, perhaps his guardian angel, had sent her down especially for him.

If it was so, then she'd drawn the short straw.

_Poor Shrimp._

It wasn't fair.

She was so beautiful and so tiny, there was no way she deserved this. Since the collapse, he'd fought so hard to save her. To stay with her and keep her alive . . .

His train of thought ground to a sudden halt. _Well, okay, he wasn't being honest._ It was time to step frankly up to the plate, and to examine a few, hard facts. It was there, _had been there,_ in the background, right from the very beginning. If he hadn't been obliged to take the baby, then no question, it would have been over.

He never would have made the unloading bay before the bomb exploded. The force of the blast would have caught him head on, and very probably killed him outright. So okay, in the end, the result was the same. There was no point pretending otherwise. But at least he'd had the chance to save the princess - to do something pure and good before he died.

As he lay in the semi-darkness, Don was forced to be brutally candid. _She _was his pansy-eyed, guardian angel. She was all that had kept_ him_ alive.

_Not for much longer_, a small part of him whispered,_ and_ _if not the blood, then the water. _

He had to hold her up above the water-line, until the rescue teams made it inside.

_His cell phone_ - he recalled it suddenly, and then remembered with a sliver of despair. _Talking . . . he'd been talking to dad . . . he must have dropped it when he blacked out._ It couldn't be all that far away, but he didn't waste any effort trying to find it. Whatever life had clung on in the battery, it would be waterlogged and unsalvageable by now. He thought of Alan left alone on the other end of the line. _God, he hated to think what dad had gone through._ He could imagine the anguish he must have caused, the unmitigated hurt and distress. Thank the lord for the GPS tracker, Megan said they had fixed on his position. There was still a ray of hope for Benedicta, if . . . _when_ . . . the waters closed over his head.

_Get here soon._

He found himself praying they would get here soon. He couldn't stand the thought of her drowning. He ground his teeth in bitterness and frustration, despite the fact he'd done all he could. Earlier on, when he'd spoken to dad, he'd really believed it was over. He guessed he was just too damned stubborn - it was a miracle he'd re-opened his eyes. Realistically, he was lucky to be alive, he knew his injuries were critical. But perhaps, there was some sort of reason why, he'd been granted a stay of extra time?

A last chance – _his_ last chance to make things right.

To be the hero and save the princess.

To know that when, at last, they traced her parents, there would be tears of joy instead of grief in their eyes.

One good thing – he wasn't in pain anymore. _Either the shock or the icy water._ He supposed he should be grateful for small mercies, however meagre or mean they might appear. The curious lucidity he was feeling, this strange, almost surreal sense of clarity, it made all five of his senses seem razor-sharp, he felt alert and hyper-aware.

The building was creaking and groaning again – he could hear the shift of rubble in the distance. Closer now, the scrape of tired metal, and a clanging noise which echoed overhead. There was something else, more unfamiliar. Don frowned, as he tried to place it. A buzzing sound, soft and persistent, like the drone of a giant insect. The implication took a moment to process, and then he felt a sudden, overwhelming exaltation.

He knew that noise – had heard it before.

_Dear God, it was cutting equipment._

He would have cried, right there and then, if he'd been able to summon up the strength. He was shaking, either with cold or with gratitude. Someone out there had listened to his prayers. If they knew where he was – _if they could get here in time_ . . . there was still a chance little Sweetie might make it.

He didn't stop to consider his own fate. It was no longer part of the equation. It would take them too long to cut through the strut while the water continued to rise. Talking of water, it was covering his ears now. Perhaps two inches since he'd regained consciousness. At this rate, he worked out, he would be totally submerged by the time another hour was up.

He turned his head slightly around to one side, until his left ear stuck out of the water. It meant almost half of his face was immersed, but at least he was able to hear. _Better - it was an awful lot better._ The sounds were suddenly amplified. He was desperate to gauge how close the rescue teams were, and ensure they did not pass by. He knew they must have an idea where he was, because of the GPS coordinates. It was all very well in theory, but it was confusing and dangerous down here.

He needed to attract their attention, but his voice was too weak to even try.

_Had to do something._

With the hope born of desperation, he groped around in the darkness. He held Benedicta tightly, his free hand sloshing through the stale water. There should be no shortage of objects he could either strike or throw, to let them know he was alive. He was looking for something solid - preferably a small piece of steel piping. _Jackpot – lady luck must be smiling on him._ His hand brushed against a chunk of masonry. He curled his fingers around it with gratitude, and pulled it higher, close to his chest. In-spite of the fact he was no longer in pain, it was frightening how much effort it cost him. Don closed his eyes for a second. It was getting harder to stay awake.

_Couldn't lose it. _

He couldn't lose it now.

He knew the timing was everything.

He had to wait until they got closer; until they had the prime chance of hearing him. The waspish drone of the cutting saw was still too far away. He tried to control his breathing, and did his best not to let it worry him. If they were following standard S and R protocol, then there would be an advance listening team.

It had been a mistake to close his eyes. He was drifting, fading away again. He jerked awake, with a spasm of panic, as the piece of concrete slid from his hand.

_Not much longer._

It wouldn't be for much longer.

If he could hold out just a little while more.

The water had risen higher again, and reached the edge of his hairline. And he was cold now, a penetrating, marrow cold, which ate right through to his core. He found the concrete, and gripped hold of it tight. There was no way he going to lose it. Not while there was a chance of saving Sweetie - of getting her away from here in time.

She was awake, and watching him silently, although for once, he really wished she would cry. Even now, he was startled and a little overwhelmed, by the glimpse of old soul in her eyes.

"It's okay. I promise it'll be okay." To his surprise, he found he really did mean it. "I won't let anything hurt you. They're going to save you in time."

Closer now – _he could hear they were closer_ – despite both ears being filled with water.

He lifted the lump of masonry; it was about time he made his move. There was a fractured, metal pipe quite close to his head. It had a diameter of four or more inches. He banked on it threading out of the void space, and having some decent acoustics.

"Come on - "

He grunted, and struck it as hard as he could. As efforts went, it was pretty pathetic, but he was reasonably encouraged by the resultant clang which resounded up through the lumen of the pipe.

_Again,_ before his body failed him for good. _Dear God, this was wearing him out._ His arm felt useless and lacking in energy, inert, and weighted down. He hoped – _really hoped_ – they would get here soon. There was no way he could keep this up much longer. The darkness was getting closer now. He could sense it, almost see it stalking him. It hovered on the periphery of his vision, like a hungry shadow, waiting in the wings.

_One more time._

And it was last chance saloon.

Don struggled to lift the lump of cement, and strained his arm in a Herculean effort. He needed every last ounce of exertion, as he smacked it hard into the pipe. The crash reverberated mournfully and echoed around the void space. He only hoped the rescue squads had heard it. He was too frail to attempt it again.

He closed his eyes in exhaustion, and took a couple of shallow breaths. The piece of rubble fell out of his hand, and splashed back into the rising water. The aching cold had spread through his bones now. His limbs were heavy and numb with it. The end, when it came, would be inevitable. He knew he was losing the fight. It would be easy – _so easy_ - to surrender at last, and drift away into the darkness.

_But not yet._

He had to finish the job. There was still a coda to be added to this story. Just as always, in every good fairytale, there would be a postscript right at the end. And, for Sweetie, it would be a happy one. He was fiercely and stubbornly determined. If he'd ever done _anything_ honourable or good, it would be getting her out of this alive.

His hand curled up around the baby's spine, and he was suddenly desperate to hold her. To know the comfort and undoubted reassurance of another human touch. _What was it_ . . . _dad had said something_ . . . he racked his tired brains to remember. _Some crap about him being a hero, because he'd saved this little girl's life_.

The hours he'd spent here, in the darkness, had prompted a major epiphany. In a way, he felt cleansed, almost nascent, in-spite of all the terror and pain. Over the course of the last few months, he'd felt tired and so impossibly jaded. Night followed day, and day followed night. It was all part of the same, endless grind. It was easy to see more clearly, with hindsight. To be honest, and own up to reality. He'd mislaid a vital part of himself, sort of lost it along the way.

In the end, when you got right down to it, Benedicta had saved_ his _life.

If he could hold on a little while longer, just enough to be sure she made it. To know they'd found her, and lifted her out of here, and taken her back into the light.

_Light . . ._

All of a sudden, he was bathed in a harsh, bright glare, dear God, he was hallucinating. All those hokey, near-death stories he'd read, well, perhaps this tunnel was finally for him? Must be the chemicals in the water - he had a little strength left to mock himself. They had gotten into his system and fucked up with his brain.

A little too much _Ghost Whisperer,_ he always_ had_ dug Jennifer Love Hewitt.

_Not yet._

Not yet, it was too damned soon. There was the baby, and then there was Charlie. He'd been hoping, better make that praying, to talk with his brother again. _Talk to Charlie . . . it was only a pipe dream._ He'd had plenty of chances, and he'd blown them. When he considered all the weeks they'd wasted, it made him feel bitter and sad. He closed his eyes, and the brightness faded – he didn't think that was supposed to happen. There were no angels, not even Jennifer Love Hewitt, to beckon him back towards the light.

"Don . . . Don you down there, can you hear me?"

_Nope,_ Don opened his eyes again, _definitely wasn't the voice of an angel._

It sounded a heck of a lot better – like celestial music to his ears.

The incongruity made him smile. _Colby Granger in the guise of an angel._ Who could have imagined the day might come, when such a thought would even cross his mind?

For some reason, he couldn't make his mouth work. He no longer had enough strength to answer. It was over – almost at an end now.

_The dark water lapped around his head._

Another inch, and he would be totally submerged. He guessed he should probably keep struggling. Truth was, he felt relieved and strangely calm. As though he'd been granted a blessing. Sweetie was safe, on the verge of being rescued. At long last, he could give up the fight. The damp had permeated up through his vest, and her little foot was dangling in the water. She bestowed a final gift upon him, screwed her face up, and started to cry.

_That was it,_ as far as Don was concerned, _there was no chance they wouldn't hear_ _her._

It was little short of a miracle – as though somehow, she'd known they were there.

"Don, it's okay, man. We've got you. Just hold on, and I'm coming down to you."

_Well okay, it was Granger again._

A strong, torch beam swept down through the cavity, and Don summoned up his last scrap of strength. He squinted up into the brightness, but at first it was hard to see anything. He blinked, and gave it a second or two; his eyes had become accustomed to the half-light. As they adjusted, he could just about make out three shapes, their concerned faces oval and white.

It was over, thank the lord, it was over. They were here, and not before time. He'd overcome the trial he'd been charged with, and saved the princess's life. _Rest now . . ._ he could close his eyes and rest now, safe in the knowledge they would rescue her. She would spend her life out of the darkness. She would look up and see the wide sky.

They were moving, and Granger was swearing, as he realised the depth of the water. A few, errant drops speckled onto Don's face, as a rope splashed down next to his head.

"Fuck – we need to work fast here, guys. The water level's pretty deep and getting deeper. At least we don't have to worry about the baby – I'm guessing by the sound of things, she's well and truly alive."

And she was, Don felt a vast surge of pride. She was crying her impressive set of lungs out. Tired and hungry, and wholly indignant, that her chubby, little foot was getting wet.

"Go, Sweetie," he managed to murmur.

_They were the last coherent words he said. _

Something lurched and rolled overhead, as the cutting saw whined into action. He knew a sudden, cold rush of anguish, as the strut pitched and shifted its angle. He cried out – or at least, he thought he did - the shock of pain was cruel and overwhelming. There was something, a raw tearing feeling, which ripped right up through his insides.

_Fuck . . . stop . . . please stop . . . _

His mind blanked out at that point. He could vaguely hear Granger shouting. It was spinning, all fading away from him, as the dreadful pain scoured him alive. He couldn't tell where the noise was coming from, either Sweetie, or perhaps _he_ was screaming. It was dark and his ears were roaring. The rising water washed around him like a tide.

Splashing – _a sensation of movement_ – and then someone was kneeling alongside him. He was hazily aware they were calling his name, in amid all the confusion and torment. The strut shifted again, and he heard himself moaning, not unlike a suffering animal. It was like something out of a nightmare – a confusing and hellish dream.

The water . . . the darkness . . . the torture of agony . . . _he no longer knew what was happening._

He was begging them - pleading with them to stop - either out loud or inside his head.

There were hands on him, moving him gently. _They were taking her . . . taking the baby._ It felt so strange – so wrong to lose her - even though he knew it was right. Safe, his little Sweetie would be safe now. Out of the water and out of the darkness.

He felt empty and useless without her - lost and frightened inside.

"Don?"

He knew it was Granger's hand on his face. He didn't bother to open his eyes. It seemed like way too much effort; the dirty water had crept closer than he liked. At least, he was no longer shivering. It was curious how the cold had receded. Perhaps, because they'd tried to move him. It was a result of the crucifying pain.

"Listen, we're gonna have to cut through the strut. There's no other way we can move you. Joe here's a paramedic, and he'll do what he can to make it easier - " he paused, as if waiting for an answer - _Don could have told him not to bother._ "I'm sorry, man, it's gonna hurt like hell, but we'll be quick as we can about it. There's no way of stopping the water – it's still pouring in pretty fast. You'd better brace yourself, buddy, we need to start right away."

The words didn't mean that much anymore. He couldn't answer, even if he wanted to. He felt as though he was standing back from it all, and watching from some great height. The concrete strut must be three feet squared. It was going to take some cutting through. He couldn't summon up the necessary energy to let them know they were wasting their time.

The water curved into his eye sockets. At this moment, he must resemble a death mask. The only part of him visible now, was the oval shape of his face. In a way, it was nearly funny. At least to anyone with a black sense of humour. He wondered then, about Charlie, and what he would make of the paradox. He'd been blown up and crushed inside a building, but the certificate would state death by drowning.

_Charlie. _

He felt a different kind of pain. In many aspects, it was worse than the other.

_His little brother hadn't wanted to talk to him._

In the end, he'd pushed him too far away.

They were so different, all of their lives, they'd been different.

_But in the end, they were so much the same. _

The paramedic – _Granger had called him Joe_ - pulled his arm up out of the water. He was muttering something, _didn't sound all that good_, about the piss poor state of his veins. Don tensed, and pushed at the restraining hands, when the cutting saw powered up again. He really didn't give a rat's . . . about the state of his veins, as long as they gave him some morphine.

_Oh God._

He didn't know how much more he could take. He cried out, and arched against the agony. The world tilted, and hazed into black and red, as they attempted to move him again.

"No veins – I need to do a cut down. His circulation's collapsed, _I'm losing him."_ The paramedic sounded urgent.

"What can I do?" Granger's voice was fading, getting weaker and drifting away.

Don listened to them speaking in the abstract. In a way, he was a virtual observer. He felt like a part of the audience, almost as if he was watching a play. The water level linked over his cheekbones now, swirling like obsidian mercury. In a few more minutes, he would be inundated. The black cold lapped across his head.

_He knew there was hardly any time left._

"Come on, Don, man, don't do this!"

He still heard Granger shouting in the distance, but both of his ears were underwater. Either that, or he was losing it big time, as both the noise and the pain moved away. There was a part of him which knew it was a bad thing . . . the way all the hurt was receding. There was no more resistance. No iota of strength.

_He quite simply couldn't fight anymore._

He rolled his head back in the water.

The ice-cold, embrace enfolded him.

_The last sensation he was aware of, was the darkness closing up over his face._

_**TBC**_


	12. Chapter 12

_**Benedictus**_

* * *

_In the tender compassion of our God _

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us, _

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet into the way of peace. _

From the **_Benedictus _**- **_Song of Zechariah_** - **_The Gospel of Luke_**

* * *

**Part Twelve**

By now, Charlie hated the portahut. It was claustrophobic, almost like a prison. There were too many people, doing too many things; he felt superfluous, like a spare-part. He'd been watching a gang of workmen, observing their progress through the window. They were assembling one of the giant spotlights almost directly outside. They'd eventually arrived through the cordons, just as Colby's squad entered into the building. As they began to unload, he gave a sigh of relief. _Talk about in the nick of time. _

Someone – he thought it was Liz Warner – pushed a scalding cup of coffee into his hand.

He didn't have the heart to remind her, _it was Don_, instead of him, who drank it black.

The derrick and the rigging teams were working flat-out. All according to his careful calculations. There was a quiet sense of urgency wherever he looked; like an electric current crackling in the air. They all knew it was a race against time. None more so than the team inside the building. The odds were decreasing with every second that passed. _Tick, tock, he could almost hear it ticking._ In his head there was a giant countdown, and the prize was his brother's life.

They sat around a table in the portahut, and listened in to the rescue squad's progress. It had taken a while to get through the atrium, which was burned out, but still mainly intact. The problem was the auxillary corridors. They had either caved-in, or collapsed. It was hard to negotiate the rubble and penetrate the heart of the building. They'd already wasted forty, precious minutes, cutting their way through an impacted ceiling.

Charlie felt like he was going crazy.

He fretted at the enforced delay.

Judging by Colby's descriptions, it was pretty much as they'd expected. Their progress was slow and stilted, fraught with dangers and frustrating impediments. They were working their way through fallen masonry, and precarious, hidden fissures and craters. Doubling back, if the route was too hazardous, and skirting around in a safer direction. The cutting crew had followed them into the building. They worked rapidly and efficiently. Clearing rubble and tearing down hazards as they penetrated further inside.

The Fire Department had wrestled with the ground floor inferno ever since the initial explosion. Although most of the blaze had been extinguished, a few, last remnants still smouldered. There was always a risk it could re-ignite, and burst into flames once again. The team was wearing breathing equipment as they clambered through the smoke-filled rubble. Their voices sounded odd and distorted, like they were down at the bottom of the sea.

_Underwater. _

Oh God, he did _not_ want to think about that. Charlie shivered at the word association. He couldn't bear to imagine what they might find there, when at long last, they reached the void space. And that was assuming they did, of course. So far, things had not been encouraging. They'd already been forced to climb down a level because one of the corridor's had dropped.

_He listened to Colby's terse location descriptions as his team encountered the dead. _

Of course, it was to be expected. Not everyone had escaped from the building. The pause between the warning and the explosion itself, had quite simply, not allowed enough time. There was little left of many of the bodies. They'd been consumed in the initial conflagration. Most of those trapped on the ground floor itself, had been horribly burned by the backdraft. Charlie shuddered, and thought back to what Megan had said.

The floor collapse had indeed, saved Don's life.

They were more likely to find survivors in what was left of the underground parking lot. The sections of ground floor which had dropped down a level, were now listed as a part of this category. The greatest number of fatalities had occurred on the first three storeys. Paradoxically, it was those nearest to safety, who had taken the full force of the blast.

He guessed they would find other casualties trapped in the maze of subterranean tunnels. It was ironical and they might not be aware of it yet, but they were, without doubt, the lucky ones. The parking lot had been built on two layers. One at street level, and one underground. The truck had been left on the former, outside the kitchen bay doors. The blast vacuum had sucked the inferno into the ground floor of the building. It rampaged through to the atrium, but left the basement storey untouched.

Charlie took a mouthful of the coffee. It tasted smoky and refreshingly astringent.

_Perhaps it was why Don preferred it this way, and drank so damned much of the stuff?_

He wondered what else Don had been drinking.

What did he do late at night, in his apartment?

He sure as hell, didn't eat, Charlie knew that for sure. There was never any food in the cupboards. Don usually dined on burgers and take-out, on the days he didn't drop by the house. He would leave the office after eight in the evening, _if he was lucky,_ if it was a good day. And then back to his empty apartment, to sit by himself in the dark.

_Oh, Don._

Charlie shook his head with misery. He'd thought, at one stage, in his arrogance, he was getting to know his brother. After so many years of virtual estrangement, he'd assumed he had a handle on Don. He realised now, he'd been kidding himself. He saw as little, or as much as Don permitted.

They'd hardly discussed his break-up with Liz.

_He felt like he didn't know him at all._

There wasn't much happening on the video link, so he turned and stared out of the window. The plaza was a mass of activity, filled with fire trucks and rescue workers. Most of those trapped on the upper storeys were now being brought down to safety. There was an emergency staircase on one side of the building, which the fire crews had managed to secure. The north face had taken the brunt of the attack, and the second and third floors had impacted. The object was to shore up the first and fourth floors, before their weight caused another subsidence.

_Jenga_ - Charlie thought, vaguely, the shift points of pivots and fulcrums.

What they were doing, in layman's terms, was simply slotting the wooden block back in place. Well, not wooden of course. It was high-tensile steel. A structure of pneumatic pipes and cable. Enough to support the side of the tower block and prevent any further collapse.

"We're moving into what's left of the corridor, and headed towards the location of the Crèche," it was Colby over the intercom. "Looks like we're going to have to go down some. Most of the floor's collapsed."

"Copy that."

He watched Megan pinch the bridge of her nose. She sounded strained, and inutterably weary. Pretty much like the rest of them really, running on a caffiene and adrenalin mix. She sat hunched over the video control console, studying the feedback from the portable camera. It was a necessary, and occasionally heartbreaking, but mostly laborious job.

John Murdoch had given them permission to set up a base camp in the portahut. It was kitted out like a listening post, and filled with state of the art, surveillance equipment. More importantly from a morale point of view, someone had brought in a coffee machine, and surprise, surprise, Alan was standing there now, fixing up yet another tray of drinks. Charlie felt his throat tighten, old habits certainly died hard. Historically, in times of sorrow or stress, dad always turned towards the kitchen.

He was glad and a little envious.

It was good to know dad found some comfort there.

There was no such comfort for him right now, he felt fragile, at the end of his tether. The fear of losing his composure, always hovered at the back of his mind. His brain was feverishly, almost obsessively active, as he checked and re-checked his equation. He couldn't stop - couldn't help it - even though he was damned sure he'd got it right.

He took in a breath to calm his scattered thoughts, and placed his forehead up against the window. It felt good to lean on something solid, and the glass was smooth and cool against his skin. It was the first, real lull, since he'd left CalSci this morning. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Events had rolled downhill like a snowball, picking up speed and gathering momentum. He sighed, there was nothing else left to do. Right now, it was a question of waiting. He was consumed with an unspoken horror they would not get to Don in time.

_Whoever said waiting was hardest of all . . . _

Charlie swallowed, compulsively_. _

_Why was it all such a minefield of memories?_

The arbitrary thought reminded him of something Don had once pinned on his wall. It was a copy of that clichéd, old poem. The one which smacked of days of Empire and glory. He'd always been rather scathing of its sentiments, but the words had appealed to Don.

He racked his brains and considered it. The line had been slightly different. It was suddenly, incredibly important to him he got the quotation right. It was _'If'_ of course, by Rudyard Kipling. He was surprised that he'd nearly forgotten it. A poet, who in light of the changing times, was now very much out of favour. He didn't know all that much about poetry, but he vaguely recalled Don telling him that.

The poem was about duty and honour . . . about courage and strength and endeavour.

_About being pushed to the sticking point and having the nerve to hold on. _

'_If you can wait and not be tired by waiting . . .'_

He could almost hear Don's voice in his head. He felt like he was going round in circles. Everything he'd done . . . _every fucking word he'd said _. . . it always looped right back to this.

Duty and honour versus self-determination.

It was a question of personal integrity.

Try as he might, he couldn't make it seem that simple. Charlie pushed back his wayward hair, and sighed. To Don, it was all so straightforward, like a bright, flaming sword of justice. Whereas_ he_ saw things rather differently, he saw the world with a scientist's eye. It was amazing they hadn't fallen out before, or at least, had a major conflict of interest.

He watched, as they tested the spotlight. It was getting closer to the time when they would need it. He looked down at his wristwatch, and felt a shock of surprise, when he saw it had gone six o'clock. They were supposed to be having a party tonight. By now, their guests should be arriving, just in time for margaritas in the yard. He hoped dad had remembered to cancel it all – to be honest, it hadn't really crossed his mind. It was strange what you thought of at times like this. All the delicious food and drink destined to be wasted. Only this morning, he'd looked inside the refrigerator, and each shelf had been positively laden.

_And Amita had gone to the store to buy more._

He found he didn't have the time to feel guilty. He wondered about her reaction upon her eventual return. _Was she surprised to find the Craftsman empty?_ He hoped she'd put two and two together, once she heard the news and realised what had happened. They hadn't exactly parted on the best of terms, and in his haste, he hadn't thought to leave a note. He felt the weight of his cell in his pocket, and knew he ought to leave her a message. He'd been incommunicado since he'd arrived here, and all personal calls were still banned.

_It was all . . . everything was so fucked up. _

Life was fickle and frighteningly ephemeral. In merely the space of a few short weeks, his whole life had changed and turned around. Bonnie Parks and the row with Don had altered things indescribably. He felt different, an awful lot wiser, as though the old Charlie had vanished forever. There was no going back, even if he wanted to. He could never be that man again.

He'd had his head in the clouds for far too long.

It was time to get real and get grounded.

Whatever happened, he had some decisions to make, responsibilities to take for his life.

There were a few things he'd done for the NSA, that at the time, he hadn't even questioned. If he was honest, he'd rather liked the kudos, it was challenging, and an honour to be asked. But not now - everything was changing now. It felt different or maybe he was. He was no longer sure he could do this . . . he stared up at the darkening sky.

His life was in a state of flux.

It had suddenly become far more complicated.

The pressure seemed overwhelming, and just thinking about it made his head ache.

He looked back at the tower block with troubled eyes. Right now, he had other priorities. It hurt too greatly to think about anything much, except getting his brother out alive. After that . . . when it was over . . . _whichever way it went_ . . . the thoughts tossed around, incoherently. He hated to accept the possibility that Don was already dead.

"Charlie?" Alan stood at his shoulder, and tracked his gaze through the window. "Why don't you come and sit down, son? You've been on your feet all day."

Charlie smiled, softly, _sadly_. "I kinda like it right here. I feel . . . so long as I can see the building, then somehow, I'm connected to Don."

"You'll always be connected to him. It doesn't matter what happens. At the end of the day, he's your brother. That special bond will always be there."

"Will it?"

If only he could accept it as true - that their bond would remain inviolable. It felt so fragile and tenuous, as though it was slipping away. If a miracle happened, and Don was all right, there would still be unanswered questions between them. As hard as he tried, it was difficult to believe it would ever be the same again.

"You're thinking about what we said earlier?"

_Trust dad to see right through him._

That was something_ else_ he needed to work on – he was as transparent as a pane of glass.

"Partly," it hurt to be honest. "I was thinking about how we were_ both_ right. On the one hand, it's about time I grew up a little, and took some responsibility for my life. And on the other – it's only fair to say – it really _is_ high time Don let me. When all this – _when all this is over_ – I think I want him to stop being my protector."

Alan's hand trembled on his shoulder. _Oh, God, his timing sucked big-time._ For some reason, he just couldn't help himself. The rogue words seemed to spill out of his mouth.

"I hope you know . . ."

He wasn't destined to find out what Alan hoped for; or at least, not right at that moment. Megan put her coffee down, suddenly, and beckoned them both to her side.

"It's Colby," she leaned in a bit closer to the monitor, as though it might help her see better. She didn't turn around as they looked at the screen, her body language urgent and wired. "They're pretty close to Don's GPS location now, and they think they just heard a noise."

_"Please God,"_

Charlie heard dad praying beside him, as they stared at the jerky pictures. The team had gathered at the top of a sink hole, and were shining their torches inside.

"Do you see him?" Megan asked them, impatiently.

There was an awful moment of silence. Over the monitor and again in the portahut, as they waited with bated breath. And then Charlie could hear it quite clearly. There was no mistaking the origin or intensity. He found to his surprise, he was smiling. _The most beautiful sound in the world._

"It's the baby," Alan was husky with emotion. "It's little Benedicta Margaret. They've found them – thank the lord – they've found them. He did it, _I knew he could do it._ My Donnie kept her alive."

There was clearly nothing wrong with the baby's lungs. Her screaming was loud and indignant. Charlie was distracted briefly, as he thought about the meaning of her name. Just for a second, he truly felt blessed. _There was a chance – there was still a chance of saving them._

The baby was wonderfully, gloriously alive.

_The void space hadn't flooded yet._

"Granger," Megan swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "What's going on, do you have a visual? We have the baby loud and clear, can you tell us anything about Don?"

"It's difficult – there's a fallen strut in the way. We're going to try and clear some more debris. If he's down there, he isn't answering us, _but maybe he just can't hear."_

Megan smiled briefly, and shook her head. "I copy. What about the water level – can you tell if it's still rising?"

"Affirmative," the momentary humour faded, and Colby was grim again. "There's a broken mains pipe a halfway down the sinkhole. It's pouring into the void space, and the flow rate appears pretty steady."

Charlie drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "They can't afford to waste any time, if it's still leaking, they have to get down there. Don could be in trouble, even though we can hear the baby. He probably found some way of keeping her safe, or raising her above the water level."

"I don't understand," it was Liz Warner who asked. "I thought they'd turned off the utilities?"

"It isn't quite as simple as that," it was Alan who answered her question. He sounded calm and remarkably unruffled, for a man who'd had such a tough day. "It's one heck of a big tower block. There are plenty of independent water tanks, and mile upon mile of piping. Sewage pipes, as well as heating pipes, and domestic water supply. Although they turned off the supply to the building, there are still gallons of residual water left inside."

"We have a visual," Colby spoke again. "Don, it's okay, man. We've got you. Just hold on, and I'm coming down to you."

"_Oh God . . ."_

Someone whispered out loud.

Charlie didn't know who said it.

However much he thought he'd been ready, nothing could have prepared him for this. At first, he could hardly see anything. The picture quality was grainy and poor. It was dependent on the inadequate lighting and the steadiness of the operator's hand.

The void space was triangular and tiny, filled with debris and chunks of fallen masonry. It was bisected cleanly, almost surgically, by a diagonal, concrete strut. He could hear the trickle from the fractured pipe, and see the dark swirling water. He strained his eyes and looked in vain for Don. At first, all he could see was the baby. It looked bizarrely as if she was floating, a small, pale smudge against the black.

_Not floating,_ he recognised with sudden horror, she was strapped like a cocoon on Don's chest.

His vision was obstructed for a minute or two, as Colby squeezed into the narrow opening. He was forced to use a climbing rope to negotiate the fifteen foot drop. _This was not going to be easy,_ Charlie realised, as he watched with a cold rush of fear. The space was tapered and filled with debris, and there was barely room for two extra men. Always assuming they could saw through the strut in time, they would have to stabilise Don before they could move him. It was going to be tricky to say the least, getting him back up through the fissure.

And all the time the water was rising.

They were so close.

_So close, and yet so far. _

Charlie watched as Colby reached the bottom safely, and one of the paramedics quickly joined him. For the first time, he had a clear view of the baby, as they passed her up to eagerly waiting hands. Her face was contorted in a ball of rage as she screamed her tiny head off. She looked tiny, and more fragile than he'd imagined. He could make out a fuzz of dark hair.

"You did it, Don, you saved her life."

He whispered the words with a catch of pride, and remembered his promise to her mother. He wished she could be here to see this. Her precious daughter being brought out alive.

There was a noise . . . they were attempting to cut through the strut.

The saw wailed as though it was screaming.

His stomach clenched with a white hot surge of fear. _God, it wasn't only the cutting equipment . . ._

Then he saw Don's face for the very first time, like a death mask, scarcely out of the water. His head was rolling in agony, as he pleaded with them to make it stop.

"No."

Charlie was sickened and dumbfounded, he was hardly aware he'd spoken. _He couldn't stay here, couldn't stand here and watch this._ He'd never seen Don give into so much pain. His brother, _his big, tough brother,_ who was always so strong, so stubborn. To see him like this, in such torment . . . the world darkened, and he felt horribly faint.

"Charlie," Megan spoke to him, urgently, and looking up, he understood the reason. Dad was immobile, his colour ghastly, as he stared at the video console.

He nodded – _he had no idea how_ – he felt ill and his whole body was shaking. He took a tearing breath, and pulled himself together, as he moved around the table to dad's side. He couldn't help glancing across at the doors. The urge to run was almost irrestible. To escape into the rose-coloured evening, and cast off all the anguish and hurting. He didn't, though, because his family needed him. There was no room to indulge his own sorrows. He was necessary - to both dad and Don - and he would be here to help bear their pain. It was a moot point as to who was supporting whom, as he linked his arm through his father's.

Alan relaxed a little in gratitude, and turned towards him with a small sigh. "Thank you, son."

He didn't seem capable of saying much more, and right now, Charlie didn't blame him. Standing here, being forced to witness this, it was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life. Right now, Colby was speaking to Don again. He didn't know if his brother could hear him. There was no sign of any acknowledgement, and Don wouldn't open his eyes. Colby placed his hand on the side of Don's face, and Charlie found himself thankful for the gesture.

Dear God, he hoped Don could feel it.

How he wished it was his own hand.

He could hardly begin to imagine it. Down there, in the cold and the darkness. The lingering threat of yet another collapse always dogging the back of his mind. To feel your life slowly ebbing away because the rescue teams couldn't quite get to you. The helplessness of being unable to move when the water started to rise . . .

His first concern would have been the baby.

_Her tiny presence would have kept him alive. _

Charlie felt a sudden, irrational jolt - _and now, they had ripped her away from him._

He knew he was reacting irrationally, but it made him feel very afraid. They had severed the brief, symbiotic link, which had grown up between Don and the baby. If he was lucid enough to know she was safe, he might be tempted to give up the fight.

They were endeavouring to shift the beam again. The situation was becoming more urgent. The paramedic had Don's arm out of the water and was trying to insert an IV line. Charlie just about knew enough med-speak, to understand there was a problem with Don's veins.

"Come on," he muttered the words out loud, as though somehow, he hoped Don might hear them.

His world seemed to shrink and concentrate. All he could see was the video monitor.

_The water_ . . . he could see it was deeper now. It had joined and linked over Don's cheekbones. Unless they got him out within the next minute or two, he would be forced to stand here, and watch his brother drown.

"_Come on, Don, man, don't do this!" _

Colby was shouting at Don again. His voice reflected their desperation. There was something ghastly, almost voyeuristic about having to watch this unfold on screen.

_Was he conscious, did he know what was happening?_

Charlie wondered if Don was still fighting, or was it too much, even for his stubborn brother?

_Was he trying to make his way out of the shadows . . . p__lease Don, don't give up yet._

_Stubborn _- the word seemed to haunt him.

He felt cold, so unutterably frozen. The very quality he'd so roundly condemned in Don – _it might be all that was keeping him alive._

Somehow, he knew when his brother slipped away from him.

He saw the black waters close over Don's head.

_**TBC**_


	13. Chapter 13

_**Benedictus **_

_In the tender compassion of our God _

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us, _

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet into the way of peace. _

From the** _Benedictus,_**_ **Song of Zechariah** - **The Gospel of Luke**_

* * *

**_Part Thirteen_**

"No . . . Don . . ."

He felt Alan's weight sag, suddenly, and braced his thighs hard against the table. He wasn't sure if it was dad, or the scene he'd just witnessed, but it was damned hard to stay upright.

"Granger, talk to me, what's happening?"

Megan spoke over the comm. link. She looked uncertainly at Charlie and Alan, before repeating her demand for information. They watched as Colby fished around beneath the water and brought Don's head back to the surface. His range of movement was awkward and limited by the weight and position of the beam.

"Come on, man, don't you fucking give up on me," he was talking to Don, instead of Megan. He braced his arm under Don's shoulder, so his body weight was bearing the strain.

There was a moment of unbearable agony while the paramedic checked for signs of breathing. Charlie didn't need the imperceptible shake of the head to know they were no longer there.

"Don't," he heard himself whisper, even though he knew it was stupidly illogical.

Don't what . . . don't drown . . . don't leave us?

_Don't you dare die on me?_

It was too late, Don couldn't hear him. It didn't look like he would ever hear again. They were giving him something – _epinephrine_ – to encourage his heart to keep beating. Charlie found he was holding his own breath, as he saw Colby tilt back Don's head. He realised then, with a clench of fear, they could not use the defibrillator. They could not shock his brother's tired heart back to life, if he went into fibrillation.

Although the equipment could be used on a wet surface, Don's chest was still immersed in the water. The paramedic would be unable to charge the machine without significant risk of shocking Colby or himself.

Colby was breathing for his brother now, exhaling deeply and rhythmically. He kept Don's head above water, while supporting the top half of his torso. The void space was chaotic, and still poorly lit. It was difficult to make out what was happening. Charlie strained his eyes ineffectually. He couldn't tell if Don's chest was moving.

He knew there was a limit to how much they could do, the working conditions were truly appalling. The paramedic performed a hasty venous cut down in order to set up an IV line. Don was inert, and by no means a light weight. Holding him up could not be easy. Colby crouched awkwardly down in the water, his muscles pulled taut with the strain.

Charlie clutched hold of Alan more tightly.

_He was gripping his brother by proxy. _

He was deeply and profoundly glad that Colby was the one holding Don.

_He was strong enough_; Charlie knew he was strong enough, and he found himself aching in sympathy. He wished he was down there with them. In the black water at Don's side. He was overcome by the sudden, bitter regret, he hadn't insisted on joining them. He'd done a bit of climbing several years ago . . . perhaps he could have made it down that line.

_Crazy. _

They were the thoughts of a crazy man.

He would have been a gross liability.

Aside from the rampant claustrophobia, his lack of fitness would have slowed down their progress. The rescue hinged on the slimmest of chances, and there was no room for well-meaning novices. If they'd been delayed or waited any longer, then in another second, Don would have drowned.

_He'd done everything he could,_ he rationalised with himself.

So, how come, it just didn't seem enough?

"Got it!" Colby sat back on his heels, with a look of exhausted triumph. "Way to go, Eppes, we have lift off. Come on, man, you gotta keep doing it. He's breathing – Don's breathing again."

Don might be, but Charlie wasn't sure if _he _was. He felt like he'd just run a marathon. His muscles were quivering with either shock or fear, and he was curiously out of breath. _That was close - way too close._ He almost lost it then, as the room slipped and tilted away from him. He leaned forward and reached for some water, as the tabletop bit hard into his thighs. The pain was good, in-fact he welcomed it. He needed the spike of adrenalin. He had no time . . . there was no time to consider himself. Dad was shaking and still far too pale.

"Here, you'd better take this."

David tapped him on the shoulder. He gave the agent a nod of gratitude, as he eased Alan down into a chair. Megan shifted to one side to make room for them both. There was no suggestion they should leave. Charlie regarded his father uncertainly, he understood how he was feeling. It was tough concentrating on anything right now, and he could hardly bear to look away from the screen.

"Dad?" He knew he had to do it - force himself to ask the question. Then, at least, he had offered a getaway clause, as difficult as it might be. It wasn't just Don he was concerned about, dad was his other priority. He was wearing his big boy trousers now, and he would do what was best for his family. "Are you going to be okay with this, or would you prefer to wait somewhere else? Being here – having to watch all _this_ – I know it's not exactly easy."

"I can't leave him. Don't ask me to leave him alone. He needs me – _needs us_ – to stay with him."

"All right."

He shrugged, and glanced at Megan for silent advice. She inclined her head approvingly. He realised then, she was under stress too, and what a huge responsibility she bore. She'd been with Don when the call first came in, and had taken control at his say-so. Since then, she'd been dubbed liaison officer between the various FBI teams. He hadn't seen her lose a shred of cool, and not once had she let her guard down. He couldn't help thinking how proud Don would be, of her strength and quiet dignity.

"_Thank you,"_ Charlie mouthed at her, silently.

He wanted her to know he was grateful. He knew she had to be hurting. Don was more than simply her team leader, he was her mentor and her best friend.

So many strands were becoming unravelled. It was as though he was descending into chaos.

_Life had splintered into jagged shards of turmoil; it was in freefall and spinning away._

"I wasn't suggesting we leave Don alone. I just had to know you were okay."

"I'm okay," Alan clarified. "For just so long as you both need me to be."

The video screen threatened to swallow him whole, somehow, he couldn't tear his eyes away from it. Strange and alluring like a siren song, and just as dreadful and mesmerising. He was equally compelled and revolted by the sequence of shocking scenes. Although Colby had said Don was breathing again, it was difficult to take his word for it. There was nothing - no spontaneous muscle twitch - no movement or flicker of life. It looked as though he was holding a corpse in his arms, Don's face was so lax and white.

There was an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, and the paramedic was working frantically. Charlie watched, as he examined for injuries, and checked and re-checked vital signs. _It was hard to see how Don could walk away from this one_, he realised, with a sudden burst of pessimism. He would need nothing short of a miracle, to survive this, unscathed and intact.

_What the hell were they still doing down there?_

They needed to hurry up and get him out.

As if on cue, Megan was speaking again. She asked for an update from the cutting crew. They estimated at least another five minutes or so, before the fallen strut was safe to move. _Five minutes_ . . . he looked down at his watch face. It wasn't long, in the overall scheme of things. But right now, from where he was standing, it seemed like more than a lifetime away.

He'd seen his brother risk his life before, and watched him face the deadliest danger. But this – somehow _this_ was different. He knew Don was slipping through his fingers. And if not physically, then certainly emotionally. There was nothing he could do to stop it happening. It was as though a gulf had widened up between them. He didn't know if they could find a way back – if they would ever meet on common ground again.

It wasn't that they didn't love each other. He knew that now, without doubt or uncertainty, but the childhood demons which had striven to keep them apart, had resurrected their ugly heads. Maybe they were just too different. Forever forced to remain inside their chosen boundaries. Was it worth trying to shake off the shackles which constrained them both within the past?

The old shadows rose up and leered at him.

_Don and Charlie, the jock and the geek._

It was an over-simplified description of a far more complicated scenario. He wasn't trying to be trite or even wilfully dense, but old patterns were hard to break. He didn't think of himself as a geek anymore. Hadn't done so for along time. And as for Don, it was a huge disservice to describe him solely as a jock.

No, they were both a lot older, and a damned sight more rounded than that. Time had moved on and blurred all the edges. It had changed things and altered them subtlety. Life simply went ahead and shifted the goalposts in that sneaky and insidious way it had.

He wished it could be more straightforward– he really wanted things to be different. But experience had taught him one harsh lesson; _in the end, there was no going back._

He'd changed and matured over the last few years. He'd grown in stature, and emerged from his chrysalis. The newfound confidence he felt as a person, echoed the arrogance he'd once found only in math. He never wanted to be the old Charlie again, scared of reality, jumping at shadows. Who spent his days shut away in the garage, instead of out there, getting on with his life.

After all this time, he was in control of his genius.

_It no longer controlled him._

So much of that, was down to his brother. He acknowledged it with an air of humility – could see how Don had dragged him kicking and screaming, forced him to look at the world with fresh eyes.

If Don made it . . . _if they got him out of there_ . . . then they were going to do some serious talking.

But first and foremost, Charlie fought off the traitorous tears.

_He just wanted his big brother back alive._

He looked back at the screen, at Don's ghostly face. In a way, it was like some grisly form of torture. Being forced to stand here and watch, as his brother's life slipped away. Colby sat in the water with Don's head on his chest, his legs effectively straddling his torso, but even in this awkward position, the water was up past his neck. They were getting horribly close to the point where nothing would make any difference. The water level would keep on rising. Their only hope was removing the strut.

He realised something new was happening, and strained his ears to hear the conversation. Megan was on the walkie-talkie to one of the Fire Department guys. She nodded, and then turned to Liz Warner, something suspiciously like tears in her eyes.

"They've informed me they're bringing the baby out soon. Liz, I want you to go fetch Mrs Da Silva. She's waited long enough for this moment, and I think she deserves to be with her daughter."

He raised his head. "They're bringing out the baby? Colby said - she is all right, though?"

Megan smiled. "Apparently, she's very noisy and angry. Oh, and in need of an urgent, diaper change."

Liz was nearly out of the door when Charlie acted on impulse. "Hey," he hurried to catch up with her. "I'd like to come along for the ride."

He didn't know why it was so important. There was no time to analyse his decision. All he knew was he had to go with her. Even if it meant leaving dad and Don, in his heart, it just felt right.

"Okay."

He could hear the note of strain in her voice, and guessed he wasn't making it easier. Doubtless, the last thing she wanted or needed right now, was to babysit a member of Don's family. He followed her through the maze of ambulances and the rows of bright red fire trucks. They were just part of the mass of movement which clogged the busy plaza outside. There were people and vehicles everywhere he looked, working hard in the fading light.

He stood still, and took a moment to absorb the scene. It was remarkable and awe-inspiring. The whole area was a hive of well-organised activity. A fast-moving, construction site. The derrick was in action at the side of the tower as the rigging crews worked on the building. There was an overwhelming air of resolution – people were united in their will to save lives.

It was suddenly hard to take a breath. He felt choked and his chest was tight. He knew then, he would never forget this day. _It would be with him for the rest of his life._

It was one of those rare, defining moments.

The kind that haunt you forever.

If he didn't have a focus, and if he wasn't with Liz, then he honestly thought he might have cried.

Sunset when it came didn't waste any time, and the end of day was sudden and hazy. The sky was washed pink, like zinfandel, with a soft, blush of rosy luminosity. _It was a perfect night for a party,_ he thought with a wistful sigh. Dad had set the tables out under the trees and strung up the Chinese lanterns.

He wondered why the cancelled party should have taken on an extra subtext. _Perhaps because it might come to signify all the precious things he stood to lose . . ._

'_Life has to go on, Charlie.'_

Don's words, right after mom died.

He remembered the white flash of anger that had burned down through his insides.

They had recovered, just like Don promised, and his brother had a lot to do with it. He'd come home and shouldered the burden, had helped steer them through the dark days. Without him, they would have been rudderless; circling aimlessly and hopelessly adrift. He'd never realised how competent Don was, until several months after the funeral. He wondered if dad would have made it through, without Don's quiet strength at his side.

Would they make it now, if it happened again?

_Could life go on, like Don said it had to?_

For once, Charlie didn't know the answer.

The numbers crept back. _He could hear them._ Seductive and tantalising. He ignored their insidious whispering, and violently thrust them aside.

Liz said; "It's incredible and terrible. They're going to turn on the lights."

The spotlights lit up one by one, ringing the plaza in a giant circle. The powerful, cylindrical pillars of light, stretched up into the evening sky. Charlie watched as they were gradually angled to shine where they were most needed. Some lit up the busy plaza, but most illuminated the wounded tower block.

He stood back to avoid a convoy of dumpster trucks, all filled to the brim with piles of debris. For some reason, the pathetic heaps of rubble made his eyes damp all over again. Liz caught her breath beside him, and quite frankly, he didn't blame her. He was a mass of conflicting emotions all tangled and rolled into one. It was terror and exhilaration - such a strange combination of reactions.

He could cry . . . he wanted to hurt someone . . . to ask what the hell they had accomplished.

He wanted . . . he didn't know what he wanted.

_For them to see Don's blood, and feel his pain._

The whole day had been vast and too overpowering.

_Right now, he didn't know how he felt._

"My car's over this way," Liz touched his arm and broke the spell.

It took them fifteen, frustrating minutes, to get through the tight security. Even with Liz's FBI clearance, there was a queue of vehicles waiting to pass. The ambulances were given priority and rushed through ahead of everything else. He sat back in the glow of the crimson lights as they pulled over to let one squeeze by.

"That's a good sign," she spoke quietly. "You know - when the lights are flashing. It means they have something to hurry for. The person inside is still alive."

"When Don and I were kids, our Mom always told us to imagine it might be someone having a baby. That it didn't always have to be a bad thing when a speeding ambulance went past."

"And Don bought that?"

"Nope, he'd tell me they'd been bitten in half by a shark. Either that, or they'd fallen into a vat of acid or something equally gruesome."

He wasn't in the mood to make small talk. The atmosphere between them was still awkward, and Charlie was trying hard not to resent her. After all, he hadn't really spoken to Don, and had no idea what had gone wrong. It was something to do with Don's past again, and the whole Leah Wexford business, but it was never entirely one person's fault when a close friendship or love affair faltered.

_Touché._ He smiled, sardonically, _talk about blame transference._ When it came to lost relationships, and broken down links, he had no right to occupy the moral high-ground.

"Are you okay?" Liz asked, abruptly, as she negotiated her way through the congestion. "It's a nice thing you're doing here, Charlie. It was good of you to volunteer."

_Was he okay?_

To his surprise, he found that he was. At least, now he was out of the portahut. He was powerless to change the course of events, by staying there to witness Don's struggle.

He knew, _somehow,_ this was what he should do – to speak to the baby's mother. It was more than a random instinct.

_He had a gut feeling Don would approve._

"Yeah, thanks." He glanced across at her, watching her slim, brown hands on the steering wheel. "Ideally, this is_ not_ how I would choose to spend my Friday, but I'll make it. How about you?"

A quick shrug. "Not great, but I'll manage. I'll feel better when they get Don out of there."

"Liz," he wasn't sure if he should broach the subject. "About you and Don . . ."

"Don't," she said, quickly. Her shoulders tensed. "It's over – over and done."

"Okay," he could see how upset she was. "I get the message. I just want to say I'm sorry. I thought you guys had a good thing going there."

"So did I," she gave a bitter, little smile. "_For a moment._ I still wonder if I did the right thing. Part of me knows . . . _part of me realises_, I may have made the biggest mistake of my life."

He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He'd forgotten where he was for a brief second. He was going to say that maybe she hadn't . . . that perhaps they still had some time to make things right.

_Oh God, the irony of it hurt him. _

Time was capricious, a valued commodity. They'd been battling and racing against it, ever since they'd first heard the news. He thought of Larry and his infinity argument - it was all very well in theory. But right now, when everything kept slipping away . . . he knew for sure time was _not_ on Don's side.

Liz clearly considered the subject closed, and he had no desire to press her. He could feel the distress rolling off her waves as they drove through the second checkpoint. Charlie sat back in his seat in silence. Her last words resonated with him. When it came to misgivings and having regrets, then Liz was by no means alone.

She drove a short way down the boulevard and stopped at a hotel forecourt. It was yet another LAPD checkpoint; he waited, as she flashed her ID. There were journalists, and news coverage vans, parked on every available inch of concrete. Police squad cars blocked off the main entrance, and prevented them from going inside.

"Where are we?" Charlie gestured towards the hotel. "I mean, other than the obvious?"

"It's a designated welfare area. There are relatives and counselling teams inside."

It made sense, he thought, as he followed her in through the glass doors. The place was crowded with anxious people. He felt their eyes on his back like a magnet, as they walked through the plush reception area.

_God, he understood only too well._

He sympathised with them wholeheartedly.

It was one of those hotels with an Italian marble floor, so exclusive, it was almost discriminatory. He vaguely remembered attending some black-tie event when he'd represented CalCi here. Right now, all the luxury seemed profligate. Decadent and almost immoral. He wondered who had persuaded the management team to allow the _hoi polloi_ inside. Liz paused, and did a quick sweep of the lobby, and someone tried to offer Charlie a coffee. He noticed there was a blood donation area off through a pair of doors to the right.

It hit him then, the scale of all this. It was a major – no, a national disaster. People were watching it live on their TV screens - _right now_ - throughout the entire world. He'd been so focused on saving his brother that he was missing the bigger picture. All these poor people with their desperate and frightened eyes – they were worried about their loved ones too.

He'd heard Colby's voice on the comm. link . . . had been there and seen the body-bags. Some of these people must know in their hearts the news wasn't going to be good.

There were several, large flat-screen's around the room, all broadcasting the latest from the plaza. They were starting to speak to the survivors now, as they panned back and forth to the hospitals. Charlie deliberately turned his back. It was disgusting, so horribly familiar. He resented the intrusive sensationalism, and the rampant salaciousness of it all. He could hardly bear to listen to the coverage; _the voices rose and fell with latent hysteria._ They were feeding on tragedy and private grief, and for a second, he thought he hated the media.

_When he had a spare minute, he ought to give blood._

It was something so very personal.

In a strange sort of way, it would mean just as much, as saving the fabric of the tower block.

"Charlie," Liz caught hold of his arm. "Are you sure you're ready to do this?"

"Yes," he nodded, almost impatiently, and followed her eyes across the room.

_Who was he kidding?_

Someone had pulled the plug out. He felt sick, and his knees were shaking. All the bravado, the fine sense of purpose, it suddenly drained away through his shoes. He straightened, and tried to school his face into something resembling composure. He was pretty amazed he was still functioning. It felt like he was falling apart.

_And Don – was this how he coped with things?_

_Did he deal by assuming dispassion?_

He remembered several years ago, when he'd accused him of being detached.

Charlie was filled with an unexpected sense of dismay. _Was he insensitive or just being clueless?_ What the hell had he really expected, for Don to tear out his hair or weep and wail?

He realised he'd stopped in the centre of the lobby, and that people were beginning to stare at him. _He could do this – he would do it for Don's sake._ He made his way across the rest of the room.

"Doctor Charles Eppes, this is Mrs Da Silva." Liz introduced them rather formally.

He smiled and held out his hand. "Please, just call me Charlie."

Marissa Da Silva was small and pale. She was pretty, her eyes long-lashed, like Bambi's. She smiled back at him, and got to her feet; there didn't appear to be anyone with her. Charlie wondered where the baby's father was, and why she was here unaccompanied. Now was not a good time to be all alone – he glanced covertly over her shoulder.

"I'm here by myself," she said, quickly, correctly interpreting his action. "Dan - my husband's in the military. Right now, he's stationed overseas."

"We have good news," Liz cleared her throat, and didn't waste anytime. "One of the rescue squads managed to get to your daughter. They're bringing her out of the building now, and as far as we're aware, she's just fine."

"Oh, thank God!"

She closed her eyes, and gripped Charlie's hand tightly. He felt his heart go out to her. Her sense of relief was almost palpable; it crashed over him in waves. _He wished_ . . . how he wished Don could see this. To witness the joy he was responsible for.

_If not for Don . . . if it wasn't for his brother . . . then her little girl wouldn't be alive._

"And your brother?"

Charlie blinked, and took a few seconds. He was having a little trouble focusing. However hard he fought to keep them away, unruly tears filled his eyes.

"He's still down there. They're trying to cut through a beam."

"He's a hero – my hero," her voice was soft. "He saved my baby's life."

"He's my hero, too," Charlie forced a smile. And it was true, he found he meant every word of it. "He's always been my hero - I looked up to him all of my life."

"Then you have to keep believing he's going to come through. The hero – he always makes it. I tell myself the same thing about Dan. Ever since he was sent overseas."

_The hero always makes it._

Her words reached out and touched him.

_God, he prayed they would come true. _

It would be too cruel to lose Don now.

_**TBC**_

* * *

**Benedictus**


	14. Chapter 14

**_Benedictus_**

_In the tender compassion of our God _

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us, _

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet into the way of peace. _

From the **Benedictus - Song of Zechariah - The Gospel of Luke**

* * *

**_Part Fourteen_**

By the time they returned to the Plaza, the sun dipped beyond the horizon. It was dark, or at least it would have been, if not for the stadium-sized spotlights. The vast area was awash with brilliant white, casting strange, and almost eerie, sculptural shadows. Charlie stared out of the window, and tried to deal with his conflicting thoughts. No one had said much during the short, return journey. Words were redundant and strangely superfluous. Now they were back, he was suddenly terrified.

_What the hell had he been thinking?_

He looked across at the portahut. He did not want to go inside.

They'd been gone exactly for exactly forty minutes. Anything could have happened in that time. He was filled with an unshakable image. He'd abandoned Don, and now he was dead. Liz parked, and he sat still for a second or two. He was frozen into immobility. It was safe in the enclosed metal shell of the car; he did not want to step out into the night.

He realised he should have called Amita. He could have done so, when they drove through the cordons. By now, she would probably be frantic, but if he was honest, she was the last thing on his mind. His whole world had miniturised to this. Shrivelled down to fit the scale of the disaster. He was incapable of venturing out of his bubble until he knew whether Don was alive.

Liz was talking to someone on the headset, and he deliberately closed his ears. It was there on her face when she turned to him. She had some news about Don.

_No, please no, _his heart plummeted.

_He didn't want . . . couldn't stand for her to say it._

In the end, he was the one who spoke first. He managed to stutter one word. "He's . . ."

"He's still down there." Her response was rapid; fast. As though she was afraid to let him finish. She quickly dipped her head and looked away from him. She'd seen the rest of his words written in his eyes. "They're making good progress with the beam and it should only be another few minutes. He's hanging on in there, Charlie. It's okay, he's still alive."

He inhaled slowly, and felt it hitch in his chest. He realised he hadn't been breathing. For a moment, for a horrible few seconds, he'd been so dammed sure Don was dead.

"Come on," he said it so softly, he wasn't even sure who he was talking to. He thought that perhaps he meant it for Don, but of course, there was no way he could hear.

Liz turned around to Marissa. In-spite of everything, she was still pretty businesslike. "I just heard they're bringing Benedicta out now. I can take you across to meet her. She'll be triaged on site by a doctor and then transferred straight to UCLA. Before we go, I have to caution you about speaking to any reporters. Because of the unique circumstances and the fact that Special Agent Eppes is still trapped inside the building . . ."

"I understand," she said quickly. "But you really don't have to worry. I wouldn't dream of speaking to anyone without Doctor Eppes' permission."

He opened the door, and helped her out of the car, feeling pleased and slightly taken by surprise. She was looking to him for some sort of guidance, he was being asked to step up to the plate. Once again, he was seeing through his brother's eyes, viewing the world from another perspective. He understood, with a frisson of deja-vu, some of the burdens Don was forced to assume. In the end, he was accountable. It was back to this morning's argument. Dad knew it and so did Amita. He - _Charlie _was the one who hadn't seen.

He was well and truly seeing it now. He felt as though he was acting as Don's proxy.

He would do this to the best of his ability. Bite the bullet and soldier on.

"Thank you - " he straightened, "and really, for the last time, it's Charlie. Come on, let's find out what's happening. I think it's high time I met your daughter."

They were joined by two Fire Department officers who issued them all with hardhats, and then escorted across to John Murdoch who was waiting by the roped off area. He nodded when he saw Charlie and gestured up at the building.

"I was just talking to our Chief Engineer, and the recovery operation's going well. They're making much better progress than we factored for. Thank God, the weather's been on our side, there's been very little wind sway."

"That's good news," _and it really was._ It looked like the tower block would make it. Now, if the same could be said of his brother, he might consider it a fairly good day.

Murdoch seemed to understand. He placed a hand on Charlie's shoulder. "It means we've been able to start doing our jobs, and get to those still trapped inside."

Charlie turned to Marissa and made some brief introductions. He knew that strictly, they were breaking with protocol by allowing her in through the cordons. He guessed Megan had okayed it with Murdoch first, and gained permission for them to enter. Once again, he was touched, and just a tad overwhelmed, by the lengths she was prepared to go to for Don. _But,_ he supposed, _it was a desperate time and it called for unusual measures. _Just occasionally, the only way forward, was to break with the established M.O.

Liz tapped her earpiece, and spoke again. She looked across in Marissa's direction, answering her tacit question with a tiny nod of her head. "Okay, they made it into in the atrium. They're bringing the baby out now."

Marissa slid her hand into his, and he gripped tight hold of her frozen fingers. He wasn't sure who was reassuring whom, as they stood, side by side, at the barrier.

They heard her before they saw her. She was screaming fit to rival the sirens. He recalled some of the comments Colby had made – she really _did _have an impressive set of lungs. In-spite of everything, all the worry and tension, Charlie found he was smiling. It was amazing what an effect on morale this was having; the baby's name should be Pandora. Just knowing she was safe – that she'd made it out alive – it gave him such a fillip of hope.

_It was random, and crazy and irrational, but it made him feel more upbeat about Don. _

He glanced around him with slight surprise. Quite a crowd of rescue workers had gathered. There was a tiny ripple of spontaneous applause as the two fire-fighters appeared. One of them had something small and pink cradled carefully against his broad shoulder. She arched her back and continued to screech as they brought her out into the glare of the spotlights.

"Oh, thank God," Marissa said, joyously. "She's all right, Charlie, I just know it. She's telling me, in no uncertain terms – and that's definitely her hungry cry."

It was wonderful – better make that miraculous.

_So why the hell was he crying? _

This then was the tiny, precious girl, who had saved his brother's life_._

"Marissa?"

Liz stepped up and took hold of her arm. She steered her gently past the waiting paramedics. Charlie tried to melt away into the background, but she refused to let go of his hand. They reached the end of the safety rope at the same time as the fire-fighters. The man carrying the baby stepped forward and handed her over the line.

He shook his head, and gave a wry smile. "She's got a great set of lungs on her, Ma'am."

Marissa hugged her, and then hugged her again. She was a little dazed, both laughing and crying. She held her daughter up to show the audience, and gave her a heartfelt kiss. "Thank you, I can't say it enough. All of you - it truly is a miracle."

"No need, we were just doing our job." Suddenly, his voice became sober. "Now, the man you really ought to be thanking – they're still trying to get him outside."

Charlie turned away, he couldn't listen anymore. It felt as though he was choking. The fleeting wonder – all the transitory sense of joy - just came crashing down around his ears. _The man still inside was his brother._ It was horribly, mind-blowingly simple. For all they knew, he might already be drowned. _He might never make it out alive._

How were they going to survive this . . . him and dad . . . he couldn't begin to imagine.

His fortitude and newfound courage – it was a smokescreen, a glittering façade.

"Charlie, wait?"

It was Marissa, she'd followed him, her hand on the sleeve of his jacket. She sounded sad and a little uncertain. He forced himself to turn around slowly, and their eyes met over Benedicta's head.

"Please don't go," she said, quietly. "I thought, perhaps - I'd like you to hold her. She's been so close to your brother. It might give you some hope . . . a little strength."

He hesitated, unsure if he could summon up the courage. The mental resilience to do as she asked. He was filled with anguish and a raw sense of grief, which stripped him of all rational thought. He regarded at the baby uncertainly. She looked damp and rather bad-tempered. The paramedic team was hovering nearby, waiting to whisk her away.

"Wait, please, wait just a minute," Marissa held up her hand, and turned in a rush, to the medics. "I want Charlie – Doctor Eppes to hold her. Be careful of your jacket, I'm afraid she's soaked right through . . .

"I don't mind."

He took a step forward, as if in a daze, and a swift dash of tears blurred his vision. It _was okay, he could do this. Wasn't like he'd never held a baby._ He reached for her a trifle gingerly, and to his great surprise, she stopped crying. His heart gave a mini somersault when she unscrewed her face and looked up at him. It was almost as if she was scrutinising him, through those tear-drenched, pansy eyes.

"Benedicta Margarita – or maybe I should call you Pandora?"

She didn't answer, of course, she_ couldn't _answer him_._ It still helped to be able to talk to her. She reached up with a tiny, star-shaped hand, and made a quick grab for his nose.

"I think she likes you," Liz spoke, dryly. "I didn't know you had such a way with babies."

"I don't usually," he spoke in a whisper. "Maybe she knows I'm related to Don."

He sighed, if only she _could_ talk to him. He wished she could answer his questions. There was so much he wanted to ask her – so much she could tell him about Don. Like . . . was he cold, and how was he coping - was he afraid down there in the darkness?

_And seeing as you happened to mention it, just how badly is he hurt?_

Did he know how much they were missing him, and how hard they'd been working to save him. _Was he battling just as hard for his own life . . . was he fighting . . . did he still even care?_

"I really wish you could tell me," he extricated his nose from her hand.

For a second, he was worried he'd done the wrong thing. Her face creased and her lower lip wobbled. He gave a sigh, and leaned forward slightly, to allow her to pat him on the chin.

"No, no, Benedicta, please don't do that. Come on, now, don't be upset. If Uncle Don gets to hear I've been making you cry, then he's not going to be very happy."

She continued to regard him steadily, as though he was some sort of curiosity. In a way, it was almost disconcerting, and he couldn't help wondering what she saw. He hadn't really been serious when he'd mentioned resembling Don, but from the way she continued to stare at him, he began to think there might be some truth in it.

Don had a way with children. He liked them and they seemed to respond to him. Usually, within minutes of meeting them, they were eating out of his hand. It was a gift that drove dad crazy, of course, and made him mutter under his breath; hassling Don about missed opportunities and the grandchildren he might never have.

As for him, well, he wasn't quite as sure. He'd never had Don's ability with people. Especially those of Larry's _'wormhole'_ variety, whose heads didn't reach up past his knee. _Until now,_ he qualified that, and suddenly, the baby cooed at him. Her lower lip stopped trembling and she broke into a radiant smile.

He smiled back - he couldn't help it.

Her little face was so engaging.

He had a strange feeling then, in his heart of hearts, she'd been sent as a gift to save Don.

_What the hell?_

Don's little, Sweetie-Pie.

Of all his crazy thoughts today, then surely this one had to take the biscuit. If they were handing out prizes for illogical, he felt certain it would win hands down. He didn't believe in lucky charms - _unless they came in a cereal packet -_ but he had a feeling, a strange sense about the baby. It was as though she'd become some kind of talisman. He'd first felt it when they'd taken her away from Don – _he did not want to let her go. _

"Charlie?" It was Liz again. "I'm sorry, the paramedics are waiting. They have to take the baby now – they have to make sure she's all right."

Of course they did. He handed her over. It was with an odd tug of reluctance. Once again, he felt as though he was linked to her, by a giant, cosmic chain. They whisked her off towards the back of an ambulance, and he watched as Marissa followed. She turned back and looked over her shoulder to give him a little wave.

"Thank you."

They were surrounded by a cacophony of noise, but somehow, he knew she could hear him. She paused at the steps of the ambulance, and gave a slight nod of her head. The doors were closed and the lights came on. Charlie stood, as it moved slowly away. _Funny, oh God, he'd never realised before, the red lights were bright as fresh blood._ He waited until it was out of sight, until he could no longer see it, weaving through the labyrinth of people and trucks, on its journey towards UCLA.

"The Press will have a field day with this one," John Murdoch came up beside him. "A baby, a pretty, little momma, with a husband on active service overseas."

"They can try," Charlie was certain. "She won't talk to them. She promised me."

_"Careful."_

He stepped aside at Liz's warning. There was another ambulance waiting. It reversed towards them cautiously, and backed into the empty space. The implication hit him then, and he looked across at her for confirmation. She was talking to someone – Megan probably – and then she took a breath and nodded her head.

"Blue team are on their way out now. ETA, approximately five minutes."

"And Don?"

"They have him with them. He's critical and they're moving as fast as they can, but as of right now, he's still alive."

"Dad - " his thoughts were disordered. "I need to fetch him . . . he needs to be here . . ."

"It's okay," her voice was shaking. "Megan and David are bringing him over."

Thank God, it didn't take them long to arrive. He was inordinately glad to see his father. Alan was moving quickly, almost ahead of the others, as they made their way across to Charlie's side. He remembered then, dad must have witnessed it all - must have seen it unravel on the vid cam. He looked dreadful, grim-faced and anxious. White as chalk, under the flashing, red lights.

"Dad."

He moved forward and drew him into a hug. It felt good to share some human warmth and contact. In-spite of the earlier awkwardness between them, right now, he really wanted his dad. Alan pulled him closer and hugged him back. Apparently, the feeling was mutual. Charlie clung on for another few seconds; he really needed the extra strength.

"Was it bad?"

_He had to know. _

He had to ask the damned question.

It was the same thing when he was tackling an equation, he just couldn't leave it alone. A series of pictures flashed into his head, each one more terrible than the other. It was the worse thing he'd ever been forced to endure . . . hearing Don . . . witnessing his agony. He supposed that by meeting Marissa he'd missed having to sit through the climax. The thought crossed his mind that he'd done it again. He'd distanced himself from the pain.

And dad – well, dad had stayed there.

He'd sat there and watched every second of it.

_Dear God, how it must have half-killed him, to sit powerlessly, mutely, by_.

Time and silence stretched on between them. He didn't mean . . . _why the hell had he asked?_

For a few seconds, Alan didn't say a single word. He wouldn't, or perhaps _couldn't_ answer. _Should have realised how much the question would hurt - should have kept his big mouth shut. _

He'd never seen dad quite so distressed. At least, not since the days after mom died. But it stood to reason he'd be disappointed, filled with either sadness or anger. Charlie pulled away, wretchedly, and wondered which of the two it was. His chest hitched a knot tighter with anguish - he braced himself for the fallout. The expression he saw took his breath away, and he realised it was neither one.

"Yes, it was bad," Alan trembled. "I'm relieved you didn't have to see it. I pray I never have to witness anything like it again."

"And Don – was he – did he . . ."

"No, thank God, he didn't regain consciousness. I don't think I could've stood much more of that, hearing him suffer such dreadful pain."

It was something – better than nothing.

At least Don had been well out of it.

So long as he didn't _stay_ out of it now.

_So long as he woke up again. _

"It took longer than they hoped to cut through the strut." Alan closed his eyes, and re-lived the episode. "Despite the fact Colby was holding him up, I thought he was going to drown. At one stage, they were even discussing ways of keeping him alive under water."

Charlie blanched, but it hadn't come that. He discovered his hands were shaking. From the sound of things, it was only by the narrowest of margins they had sawn through the strut in time. Don was hurt - and hurt badly. Didn't have to be a genius to realise. He wanted to know just_ how_ badly, but he stopped short of asking the question. With any luck, that monster might go away, if he hid his head under the blanket.

They would know the answers shortly enough. They were bringing him out any time now. After the long day's anguish and heartache, he could hardly believe he would soon see Don's face. He clung onto the thought it was still the first day. Even though it seemed like a lifetime. They'd stayed within the _Golden Day of Survival,_ and given Don a slender margin of hope.

_He prayed with every fragment, every atom of his soul, that his brother would reach out and grab it. _

"I just heard from Colby," Megan said, she looked at them both very gently. "They're on their way through the atrium. We need to hand Don straight to the medics, and get him hospitalised as fast as we can. Now, I'm sorry, you know you can't go with him, but David will run you to UCLA."

"Then, it's not good?" Alan was crestfallen. "I wanted – _I was hoping to stay with him._ Something terrible, something like this happens, and I never want to leave him again."

"He's hanging in there," she took hold of his hand. "You know how he is – so damned, stubborn. It's just that he needs urgent attention. There's not going to be any room. Sounds like they might be in a hurry - it's a damned shame we can't land a medevac."

_Urgent attention_ . . . Liz had said, critical.

And now Megan was talking about a medevac. Charlie linked his arm through Alan's, a swell of tension building in his chest. He tried to picture how the strut had been placed, and the way Don had lain twisted beneath it. It was too hard to get any real idea as he'd been under water by then.

Megan said, "They're coming out."

He looked up, his heart in his mouth. The first person he saw was Colby, running alongside a stretcher. They moved quickly, not wasting any time, as they approached the safety blockade. The paramedics jostled to the front of the queue and met them as they reached the barrier. There were too many people and not enough light - it was impossible to track their progress. Charlie broke away and pressed himself forwards. He fought his way through to the fencing. He'd waited so long for this moment – they were not going to push him aside.

_He saw him then. _

Saw Don, and caught his breath.

The world came tumbling down around him. If he didn't know . . . hadn't heard Don was alive, then he would have been sure he was dead. White . . . his pallor was ghastly. He was the colour of ash and unmoving. Charlie could see he was soaking wet, his hair slicked dark with water.

He'd already been intubated; his neck was rigid in a surgical collar. They were running in some sort of fluid through a tube attached to his arm.

_It was too dark . . . he was too wet . . ._

Charlie couldn't tell if he was bleeding. The paramedics were firing phrases at each other in their usual, staccato med-speak. He heard frightening things like fractured ribs, and a possible, crushed pelvis. The rest of it didn't make much sense. The grim words jangled around in his head.

He was raw, on the edge of a nightmare. All he knew was frustration and terror. He'd clung onto and hoped for this moment, but it was brittle and shattered like glass.

His brother had made it out of there. He'd made it out of the tower block.

Don was right here beside him.

_He had never felt so far away. _

_**TBC**_


	15. Chapter 15

Benedictus

_In the tender compassion of our God _

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us, _

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet into the way of peace. _

From the** Benedictus - Song of Zechariah - The Gospel of Luke**

* * *

**Part Fifteen**

He knew he was missing something.

Something precious, and very important.

Had to get up . . . had to stir himself . . . to get off his lazy ass and go find it. The trouble was, he was a prisoner. He couldn't move for some reason. Better lie here a while longer until they could set him free.

Who _they _were, he wasn't really sure. In-fact, he was confused about most things. There was a memory . . . a sense of deep fear and urgency . . . he reached out, but then it was gone. A ball of tension unclenched inside his gut. _No peace,_ there was no peace for the wicked. He was tired and skirting round the periphery of pain, but it just wouldn't leave him alone.

There'd been darkness and there'd been water. He was a little vague on the details. A sense that time was running out for him – that somewhere, a giant clock was ticking down. He was restless now, edgy and anxious. If only he could remember. Where he was - whatever had happened – there was someone else he should be looking out for.

_Charlie._

It was usually Charlie.

Seemed like he'd always looked out for his brother. Even the times when he hadn't really wanted to; when he would quite happily have consigned him to perdition.

But it wasn't, he knew it wasn't.

_Not this time, something was different._

Him and Charlie – there'd been some kind of argument, and everything around him had changed. He was aware of a roll of depression; of shifting, clawing misery. This difference of opinion between them?

It quite clearly hadn't been resolved yet.

Better put it on his list of _'to do' _things, but of course, that was once he'd made it out of here. Once they decided to lend him a hand and move this damned weight off his legs. It was getting to be kind of ridiculous now. He could feel the pain starting to lick back at him. A curious, burning sensation, like small tongues of fire on his skin.

He tried to drag himself up out of the darkness, but his eyelids appeared to be weighted. Too much effort – too much effort to do anything – but lie here and succumb to the void.

Slowly, gradually, some feeling returned, and with it a dawning sense of awareness. There was something hard, but yielding behind him. He was leaning back in someone's arms.

_Fucking great. _

They couldn't get him out.

There was still darkness, there was still water.

_They ought to save him – why couldn't they save him?_

The nightmare wasn't over yet.

"Easy, Don."

Yeah, right, because this was so _easy,_ just like shooting fish in a barrel. He found it really annoying to be spoken to as though he was a fretful child. _And what the hell did Granger know about it – who gave him the okay to talk such bullshit?_ He conceded it _might_ be easy if he wasn't confused and in pain.

_It might be a fucking walk in the park without a tower block collapsed on his head._

_Oh God, it was coming back to him now._ The sinuous tendrils of memories. They swamped him in a sudden rush of panic, his pulse rate thudding like a drumbeat in his veins. It was the tower block, there'd been an explosion. He felt as though he was groping after shadows. They laughed at him, gently eluding him. Tantalising, and out of reach.

The vice-like grip around him tightened. He realised he must have been struggling. He tried to talk, tried to get them to listen, but for some reason, he couldn't seem to speak.

_A crash of agony which blinded his senses._

He thought he screamed, and bucked against it. He remembered the sound of the cutting saw. It whined again – hurting his ears.

Granger was restraining him, holding him down. The pain had returned with a vengeance. He twisted and thrashed about in an effort to escape, but his futile attempts were in vain. Granger held onto him, firm as a rock. The strength in his arms was relentless. He was way beyond panic and long past alarm. He was spiralling – endlessly falling. The struggle, the scent of blood and confusion, it was all at one with dark.

_Couldn't breathe . . . he couldn't breathe_.

He surged forward, there was something crushing him. Not just Colby Granger's muscles - it was his own body, clamping down on him. More pain; _no, acute anxiety._ Didn't they realise there was no way of saving him?

He knew then, he was trapped here forever.

_There was no way out of the void space. _

It crept sure and inevitable as ivy. A sense of atrophy which hardened inside him. The images came thick and fast now, but they were scrambled, like a tangled ball of string. Or a deck of cards, scattered around a room. Falling at random, with no sense of precision. As though they'd been deliberately reshuffled, and rearranged with malicious intent.

It was Hanukkah, the first day of the holiday.

He was supposed to be going to a party.

Charlie's party - he'd been looking forward to it – _about as much as a hole in the head. _

Him and Charlie – they'd reached some kind of impasse. A polite silence with neither of them speaking. Unless you counted the embarrassed small-talk, or the forced and awkward pleasantries. Oh, yeah, Charlie was royally pissed off with him, and he was pretty fucked off with Charlie. Two stags butting heads together and never the twain shall meet.

Flash forward to his current predicament. Charlie had – _God, he'd refused to speak to him._ He'd clearly elected not to come to the phone during that last conversation with dad. In the past, they'd gone for months without talking. Not consciously, or because they'd chosen not to. It was just that their lives were so different back then, and their paths had very rarely crossed. He was mainly situated on the East Coast, and Charlie had been over in England. He'd spent some time out of the country when he'd been forcibly incommunicado . . .

And then there was Albuquerque.

He'd thought he was buying into normal.

He'd have time to rebuild a few bridges and reconnect with his family.

It was back to those damned, Scottish mice again. The ones that kept getting their plans wrecked. So much for buying into normal – it was then they'd told him mom was sick. So, yeah, in the end, he'd gone home again, but the circumstances had been far from regular. Their reunion had been strained and fraught with sorrow. In the end, it had really sucked.

And afterwards, it hadn't all been plain sailing, either for him, and especially not Charlie. At first, it had been as awkward as hell. They were both scarred by mom's death in different ways. He'd been tired, so tired and angry, and work seemed like the only escape. It had taken a while to come to terms with his grief, and they'd circled each other cautiously. But he couldn't remember there was ever a time when they had deliberately chosen not to talk.

_He'd fucked it up. _

Congratulations, Eppes.

Just like all your other personal relationships. Couldn't even make things work with your family. A lousy brother and a long-distance son.

Something shifted, and he rolled in agony. Tried to push back from the source of it. The arms which held him remained strong and unyielding, as he was engulfed by the latest surge of pain.

_Too late . . . it was too late now._

He knew there was no getting out of here.

It was inevitable the water would claim him; he was slipping down into the darkness again. _God help him, he was so weary. _He didn't know if he could do this much longer. Must be a cut-off point - there had to be a limit. He couldn't go through such torment again. He'd been trying hard, fighting hard for everyone else. Surely, they understood, wouldn't make him?

Now, all he craved was an end to it.

_No more hurting and a little peace._

"Can you hear me, man? I think he can hear me."

_Yeah, he could hear, but he couldn't answer._ He was exhausted – way beyond talking - his body dull with the pain. And if the pain was bad, then the cold was worse. It ate at him – rendered him inert. His muscles were no longer shivering. The chill had spread through to his marrow.

"Don? Come on, Don, open your eyes."

He couldn't, even if he wanted to. And right now, he wasn't sure he did.

_Why the hell was Granger even bothering?_

He wished they'd leave him alone.

He was drifting . . . sinking down into the blackness, as the cold took him deeper and deeper. He wasn't prepared for the explosion of agony when the saw powered up once again.

_Oh, God . . ._

There was a giant surge of blood in his ears, it crashed over him, down towards his feet again. He knew a curious feeling of lightness, and he was buoyant - floating away.

Granger was shouting, he sounded jubilant. "They did it - _they did it,"_ he repeated, "_they cut through the fucking beam. _We'll have you out of here before you know it. You hear that, Don, you're free!"

But he couldn't hear . . . didn't know much of anything then. The pain had swallowed him whole. There were hands on him, _all over him,_ hurting him, pushing and jostling. He tried to pull away, tried to fight them, but it was futile, he was too weak to move. His chest ached. For some reason, it wouldn't work, and he was panting, sucking for air.

"_No . . ."_

He didn't know if they could hear him.

He couldn't breathe.

He was dying.

* * *

Sometimes, if he thought about it later, he couldn't picture the journey. All he recalled was the silence; the trepidation, and cold sense of dread. If dad had spoken, then he wasn't aware of it – hadn't heard – and certainly hadn't answered. He'd sat there, too numb to do anything much, hurting and frozen with fear.

It had taken so long. So infernally long, it seemed to go on forever. Like one of those frantic, nightmarish dreams, when you're endlessly running down corridors. However fast you can run, or far ahead you might be, there's no escaping your pursuer in the end.

There was not much point using the sirens, but Sinclair had turned them on anyway. They crawled through the congestion at a snail's pace, caught up among streams of vehicles. The city was wounded, still reeling. Clogged with traffic and blank-faced people. A vast, collective sense of shock, which resonated and hummed through the night air. It was curious how folk always took to the streets; as though they needed to be a part of it. Seeking the comfort of strangers, too lost and afraid to go home.

He remembered the lights at UCLA. More time-wasting, and maddening cordons. The reassuring timbre of Sinclair's voice, so decisive and incredibly calm. They ran the gauntlet of the waiting Press, like hungry sharks, in search of a story. They were clustered everywhere around the hospital, outside the maw of the Emergency Room.

The waiting rooms were packed with people. He saw both relatives and some walking wounded. Wherever he looked, there were heavily-armed security staff, at the entrances and reception areas. Plain-clothed officials were interviewing blank-eyed, survivors, and copying down their witness statements. He supposed it had to be done straight away. Before the memories mercifully faded. Some looked like they'd already forgotten . . . and others . . . as though they never would.

_And his brother was somewhere in the middle of all this._

Charlie blinked, and looked helplessly around him.

He felt lost and horribly bewildered by the clamour of humanity and light.

"Follow me."

Suddenly, David was in front of him. He'd been deep in conversation at the reception desk. Charlie passively allowed him to take control, as he shepherded them off to one side. They followed him along one of the corridors – away from the main waiting area. Charlie felt better as the noise receded, once they left the human chaos behind.

"In here." David opened a side door, and ushered them both inside. He swept his arm around with a small smile. "At least we get our own waiting room. I figured you could use the privacy. It's not much, but you can stay for as long as you need. One of the perks of being FBI."

Alan looked at the chairs, but he didn't sit down. "What about Don, did they have any news for us?"

"Not much," David shook his head. "Some one will be along to speak to you soon."

Charlie grimaced, he positively hated those words, even though he'd been expecting them. He realised this was how it would be – the whole tenor of the next few days and nights. An agony of prayers and bitter regrets. Of dread, and time spent hoping.

_If they were lucky. _

The thought came unbidden.

_If they were granted the blessing of waiting. _

For all he knew, it was already denied them.

There were no guarantees Don was alive.

He stalked restlessly across to the window and stared out towards Tiverton Drive. By now the moon had risen, and the clear skies were full of stars. He looked up at them for a second or two, and the irony didn't fail to escape him. As a rule, the combination of bright lights and smog did a good job of blanking them out.

He supposed he shouldn't be all that surprised. The day had been anything but ordinary. It stood to reason it could only be followed by a less than average night. It was a brand new moon, a crescent moon, and the symbology made him shiver. It curved, thin and white, like a scimitar blade as it hung suspended over the city. He was so hypnotised by the imagery, he almost didn't hear when the door knocked.

He jumped, and turned his back on the window. _Almost, but not quite. _

The doctor was tall and dressed in scrubs. She held a clipboard and looked tired and harried. He'd seen the same look too many times today – _welcome to the survivor's club. _

"Mister Eppes?" her eyes settled on Alan. "Family of Don Eppes?"

David got up, hurriedly. "I'll go get us some coffee."

Alan said. "I'm his father," there was a tremor of fear in his voice.

"Marie Senecal," she held out her hand. There was a trace of a Quebecois accent. "I'm the doctor who admitted Don."

"Please - " Alan took a shaky breath, and faltered, he didn't seem able to go on.

"What can you tell us," Charlie stepped forward, and took hold of her hand. He sounded horribly brisk and efficient. Part of him stood back and gaped in surprise, at how able at this he'd become. "I'm his brother, Doctor Charles Eppes."

"A medical doctorate?"

"Mathematics."

He guessed she'd been hoping for the other. He was sorry he'd failed to oblige her. It would have saved time, and made her life easier if he could understand what she said.

She nodded, and gave a small sigh of regret. "We're still waiting to get some results back, but I can give you a quick précis. I'm sorry, the first thing I need you to understand, is the gravity of Don's condition."

Charlie swallowed. "Oh, I think we understand."

"Of course. Please . . ." she gestured towards the chairs. "Do you mind if we sit down?"

He was about to make a sharp response, when he saw her looking closely at Alan. He exhaled, with a sharp pang of chagrin, and watched anxiously as Alan sat. Almost at once, dad looked better. He was immediately a little less unsteady. He should have seen – should have noticed how pale dad was - but his head was in a dark place, right now.

She echoed his thoughts, and smiled gently at Alan. "That's good. You look much better. It's a lot easier to be frank with you, if I don't have to worry you might fall down."

"Thank you," and this time, Charlie meant it.

_He didn't know what the hell was wrong with him?_

He felt so irritable, so scratchy with everyone, like he was poised on the edge of his nerves. The woman was only doing her job. It would be foolish to antagonise Don's doctor. He took a stab it had been a considerable length of time, since she herself had been off her feet.

"I'm sorry." He ran his hand through his hair. "I'm tired, and it's been a long day. Forgive me for being overly brusque, but we just want to know about Don?"

She spoke to them both, sympathetically, and he wished then he'd never asked her. The long list was terrifying. The severe extent made him recoil. At some stage, he reached over to Alan and grasped hold of his arm for comfort. The litany of words washed over him, and settled like a black cloud overhead.

A concussion, well, there was no surprise there. At least there was no skull fracture. There were five broken ribs on the lower left side, and the inevitable, punctured lung. The doctor took a breath, and sat back in her chair, she regarded them very carefully. Charlie felt as though she was weighing them up; trying to gauge whether or not they could cope.

"And the rest of it?"

He sat up a little straighter in his chair, and looked back at her forthrightly. This, more than ever, was not the time for dissemblance. He had to know what they were facing - had to hear the unvarnished truth. Once they knew, then they could start to confront it. _Or, at least that was the theory._ He didn't know if it was going to work, in practise. The whole world had suddenly gone pear-shaped, and he only hoped he could get by.

"The main injury is to his pelvis. It was fractured in two separate places. It's usually a non life-threatening injury, _if _we'd been able to treat it in good time."

"I don't understand," Alan was bewildered. "How does the time lag make any difference?"

"It isn't so much the pelvis itself, as the organs and structures it protects. If you think about your pelvic girdle, it encloses many important structures. Abdominal, excretory and reproductive organs, the bladder, and of course, part of the spine."

"The spine?" Alan's face froze in fear.

"One of the most common side-effects of an unstable, fractured pelvis, is organ damage and perforation. This creates internal bleeding, and threatens the patient's haemodynamic status. In simple terms, the blood loss causes massive shock."

"And Don – his organs - his spine was damaged?" Charlie gripped hold of Alan even tighter. He didn't know what he had expected to hear, but it most certainly wasn't this.

"That's why I'm here," she spoke more gently now. "To let you know how we're proceeding. Don's been losing blood internally, and we need to discover the source. We're taking him up to the OR now for an emergency laparotomy. This will allow us to identify, and deal with, any causes of intraperitoneal bleeding – that's bleeding into the abdominal and peritoneal cavities. It will also enable us to repair the damaged pelvic bone. We have to stop the bleeding first, in order to save Don's life."

"In other words, you don't know yet?"

"In other words, we're not sure. We could do something called an angiography, which might help determine the source of the blood loss, but to be frank, Don's condition is unstable, and we don't want to waste any more time."

"When you say unstable . . ."

"He lost a large amount of blood. He was severely hypotensive on admission. We've been infusing him since arrival, but we have to put a stop to the bleeding. The lung damage hasn't helped much, but it isn't the cause of the problem. Right now, the biggest threat Don faces, is circulatory failure due to shock."

"In other words, his heart could stop."

"I won't pretend this is going to be easy. I'm afraid he's in a critical condition. If he makes it through the surgery, he'll need to go straight to the ICU. Mister Eppes - " her voice softened. "I can assure you we're doing all we can."

"He's a fighter," Alan said, dazedly. "My Donnie, he's always been a fighter. It's a miracle he survived the explosion – not many people could have made it out of that."

"He's tough . . ."

Charlie almost said stubborn, but the word stuck in his throat and hurt him. It had too many connotations, on this, the most terrible of days. Tough was good. _In fact, it was better_. It was sturdy, just like his brother. If anyone could conquer this, then Don could. He stole a grain of comfort from that.

He deliberately ignored the other whisper. The one which implied and persisted.

_What did he know . . . what did he know of his brother?_

It was unthinkable that Don would give up.

_**TBC**_


	16. Chapter 16

_In the tender compassion of our God _

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us, _

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet into the way of peace. _

From the** Benedictus - Song of Zechariah - The Gospel of Luke**

* * *

_**Part Sixteen**_

In the end, Don made it through the surgery. It was touch and go when his heart stopped again. He'd remained in the OR a full nine hours while the medical staff fought for his life. They stayed in the private waiting room. Him and dad, and sometimes, David. He lost track of how much bad coffee he drank. It soured the back of his throat.

If there was one thing Charlie hated, it was clichés. But it really _did_ seem like a lifetime.

He couldn't tear his eyes from the waiting room clock; from the unrelenting sweep of the second hand. It was both soothing and annoyingly compelling as he watched it revolve round and round. The clock was out by three minutes and it bothered him beyond all proportion. You'd think in a hospital of this size they'd have someone come and fix it. A janitor or electrician, perhaps, someone who could make things right.

Ultimately, it made no real difference.

It still marked the long passage of time.

They weren't blessed with any concrete news until dawn rose and streaked the sky golden. By then, he was trying to prepare for the worse, and starting to give up hope.

He was tired but preternaturally aware. It was as though all his senses were on overdrive. The lack of feeling and impression of remoteness had gone – _he didn't know which was worse._ It was hard, this wearing conflict of emotions, strong one minute, and in crisis the next.

He hated the confines of the waiting room, with its beige-coloured, functionality. And yet, he was afraid to leave it. Somehow, he felt safer inside.

At least Alan managed a few winks of sleep. David had brought him a blanket. Charlie insisted he take it and try to get some rest in the chair. If he was honest, he far preferred being alone. He hated feeling he was under scrutiny.

He wasn't up to any of the social things, and he had no inclination for small talk. He was grateful to David for staying with them, but glad when the agent left the room. There was no sign of Megan or the rest of Don's team. They were still heavily involved at Ground Zero. He guessed he wouldn't see them until well into the next day. In some ways, it made things easier. It gave him a sense of respite.

At one stage, he took his cell out of his pocket. There were numerous missed calls and texts from Amita. He sighed, and quickly scrolled through the messages, then switched it off again, and put it away.

_Not now._

He couldn't do this now.

He was afraid of dispersing his energy.

If he stayed focused and concentrated hard, then somehow, it might help keep Don alive. Deep down, he knew it was crazy. He was only postponing the inevitable. But he knew if he talked to Amita, then she'd rush through the night to his side.

If he looked into her eyes, he'd be confronting himself. He'd be forced to face all his old demons. It would expose and gouge open the freshly made wounds he'd tried to suppress since this morning. It wasn't fair, but right now, he didn't care. Once again, he was taking her for granted. He was relying on her concern and forgiveness. He supposed he took too many things for granted . . . and perhaps he had done so all his life.

He couldn't help it. There were no excuses. _Sometimes, the math was all that mattered. _The glorious sense of exultation when a new equation burst into life. There were times when he was nodding off and then suddenly his mind would fill with numbers. He was driven to work with them, right there and then. There would be no more sleep that night.

If anyone understood, then Larry did. And possibly, Amita, just a little bit. His family didn't have a clue, not really, not since his mother died.

He'd never been good at multi-tasking. It was why he was such a terrible driver. He'd be stuck in a long line of traffic and his head would be full of math. Mind you, he hadn't been much better on his bicycle. The whole transport thing had given Don nightmares. He'd worried Charlie's lack of attention would end up causing an accident. In the end, he'd agreed, reluctantly, that a car was the lesser of two evils.

_And there it was. _

Charlie sighed, and rested his head in his hands. _Yet another case of Don the protector. _Right now, it felt so bad-taste/ironic, he almost burst into tears.

_No, he couldn't talk to Amita right now. _

Until he knew, it would have to wait.

He stood up and moved across to the window sill. The air was thin with that daybreak transparency. Still cool, as the dark veil was lifted and gave way to translucent light. Another day. He could hardly believe it. Another day, and outside the world had changed. Not just for him, but for so many others. It was never going to be the same.

When he looked up again, the sky was splashed with gold. In wide strokes, like the hand of a bold painter. Bright and unsullied, a brand new canvas, but with uncertain and different shades.

_Too long . . . it was all taking too long. _

He needed to know about Don.

Right on cue, the door opened, and Marie Senecal came into the room. If it was possible, she looked even wearier. Drained and more harassed than before.

"Doctor Eppes," she gave the briefest of smiles. "Your brother made it through surgery. Right now, they're in the process of transferring him up to the ICU. You'll be able to see him for a short space of time, once they've settled him into his room."

"And the bleeding?" it was Alan, wakeful and suddenly alert again, as he jerked upright at the sound of her voice. "They managed to stop the bleeding?"

She nodded. "It took a while and quite a few units of blood, but yes, they controlled it in the end."

She was holding something back, that much was obvious. It was there behind her eyes, in her demeanour. Charlie searched her face hoping for answers as his heart sank and side-swiped the floor.

"What did you find when you opened him up – what caused it – what caused the bleeding?

"If you'll come with me, I'll take you up to meet his surgeons. They can explain it to you in more detail."

More detail sounded quite ominous. Charlie recognised evasion when he saw it. He couldn't imagine how Don would cope with any long-term damage to his spine. He'd been in surgery for a whole nine hours now. Such a long time, but not necessarily a bad thing. It meant the surgeons were being extra thorough, that they were taking a lot of care.

In a way, he was right.

But not wholly.

The news still took some digesting.

He looked across the desk in stunned silence, as he regarded the two men facing him. The Trauma Surgeon spoke to them first and explained the source of Don's bleeding. Damaged blood vessels and a perforated gut, all of which they'd been able to repair. They were concerned about the high risk of infection as a result of prolonged immersion, and knowing the probable source of the water, Charlie wasn't all that surprised.

Ironically, the pressure from the concrete strut had helped to slow down the bleeding. In the end, the very object which had caused Don such hurt, might just have helped save his life.

Charlie shuddered, as he continued to listen. Don must have been in total agony. If he made it, he was going to have nightmares. Almost certainly for the rest of his life.

How had he done it?

_Dear God, how had he borne it?_

All alone, and trapped in the darkness?

He guessed if it was anyone other than Don, then chances were, they wouldn't stand a prayer. From the bits he'd gleaned from Megan and dad, he knew a lot of it was down to the baby . . . from the stubborn-assed streak in his pig-headed brother which had refused to leave her alone.

_Oh Don . . . _

He listened as the Orthopaedic Surgeon explained how Don had also shattered a vertebra; about how incredibly lucky he was none of the fragments had penetrated his spinal cord. They'd immobilised the pelvis with metal screws using something called external fixation. It meant Don would be spending one hell of a time confined within a metal cage.

More irony.

Another cruel twist of fate.

In a way, Don would still be trapped.

_Or,_ Charlie felt he should probably qualify that, _he would be, if he survived._

And this, then, was the crux of it. The fact that he was stable but critical. If there was one thing today should have taught him, it was the fact there were no guarantees. He'd had enough – his mind was floundering. He was punch-drunk on a surfeit of med-speak. There would be plenty of time to absorb all the facts in the uncertain run of days ahead.

Right now, all he wanted was his brother. To see him, to touch and talk to him. He wasn't stupid – he knew Don would be out of it – but some part of him might sense they were there. Less than twenty four hours – it had been less than a day. He shook his head, he could hardly believe it. But to Don it must have seemed like forever, under the rubble with the water level rising.

Apart from the baby, he'd been all alone.

_Well, no more. _

He should know they were there for him.

_Whatever it took,_ Charlie's eyes stung with tears. _He prayed it wasn't too late. _

"I'm sorry," he pushed back from the table, "but I want . . . I just want to see Don."

He realised he should have thanked them. They were most likely expecting some questions. And then again, maybe they wouldn't be. They did this sort of thing all the time. Looking up, he saw he'd guessed accurately, and the conversation was over.

Alan was talking, a murmur of gratitude, saying all the polite words he couldn't. The stuff he knew Don generally took care of . . . the usual things he would do if he was here.

But he wasn't.

Wasn't here to do them.

To deal with and sort out the details.

He was somewhere else, remote and inaccessible.

_There was a chance he might not be here again. _

Corridors – a dreamlike sequence of events. He wondered if he was back in his nightmare. It felt as though they were walking forever, with no final destination in sight. He was vaguely aware of going through doors; of riding an elevator. The hospital appeared almost deserted, at the tail end of an extraordinary night.

"Charlie?" Alan's hand was on his shoulder. "Son, are you all right?"

He jerked out of the semi-trance he'd been in and realised they'd reached their objective. Marie Senecal spoke to one of the nurses, and then beckoned them to follow her inside.

"This way. The staff have just finished settling him. Please bear in mind what I explained. It's all going to look pretty scary at first, but the machines are there to help Don rest and heal."

Charlie bit back a retort, but remained silent.

_Just who did she think she was kidding?_

The ventilator, all the monitors and infusers, right now, Don needed them to stay alive. He sighed, and felt ashamed of himself. Okay, so his bad mood had persisted. Until now, the hospital had done a pretty good job, and the doctor had been very kind.

"Here we are," she said, softly.

Charlie stopped, and stared through the glass screen. If there _were_ machines, then he didn't see them. A dark head, a familiar shape in the bed . . . all he could see was Don. All his plans, all his good intentions, he felt them dissolve and crumble around him. Don was pale and his skin appeared waxy. It looked like he'd already gone.

Charlie wondered then, whom he'd been kidding. He'd been expecting some kind of miracle. He felt cold – very cold and suddenly sure. _There was no coming back from this. _

"If we talk to him, can he hear us?" Alan sounded shaky.

"He's very heavily sedated, but there's no reason you shouldn't try."

"Waste of time," Charlie was brusque. "You said his eardrums had been ruptured."

"Excuse me," Alan took hold of Charlie's arm and led him off to one side. "Come on - what the hell is wrong with you? There's no harm in being optimistic, she's only trying to be nice."

"I don't want you to keep clinging onto false hopes," Charlie spun away from him in misery. "You heard what they said – _you can see him_ – it's a marvel he made it this far."

"No, don't say it," Alan said, fiercely. "I won't listen to this kind of talk. I won't let you give up on him, Charlie; do you think he would give up on us?"

_"Look at him."_

He stopped, the words useless and faltering. He couldn't speak, couldn't articulate. He took a breath, turned away from his father, and pressed his forehead up against the glass. Don's chest rose and fell with a sibilant hiss as the air was forced down into his lungs. Charlie waited and found he was counting beats as he observed the machine do its job. It was rhythmic and dishonestly calming. Nothing had changed and it wasn't about to. The tower had weakened and fallen in on them.

_They might have pulled Don out of the wreckage, but now, it was their turn to be trapped._

"Don't make me start quoting odds to you. I don't think you'd want to hear them. I have to . . . I have to start facing it. To cope with it, _not like before."_

"Oh, Charlie," it was then that Alan hugged him, ignoring his stiff-backed, resistance. "This isn't - _it_ isn't hopeless. Your mother, she knew there was no chance of a cure, but you heard them, it's not the same for Don. He's strong and he's going to fight this, and we'll be right here, alongside him. Even now, in there, I know he's doing his best. _He's trying to get back to us."_

"How do you know?"

Alan smiled. "Because it's Don in there. Because I know him - I know your brother. Just like I know he'll be able to hear us. Just think about it, Charlie, how much he's always hated losing. But right now, he needs a helping hand. It's up to us – _we_ have to help him win."

Dad was right, Don was no quitter. But this time, there _was_ a difference. This time, Charlie suspected something dad didn't. There was a chance Don had been depressed.

Was it enough to put an added slant on things?

To steal his brother's much-vaunted, fighting spirit?

Was he already sliding quietly away from them, without a struggle, as he prepared to give in?

Dad had to be right – God, he prayed he was right. This time, everything was hanging on it. _Please don't give up,_ Charlie thought selfishly, as he stared through the glass at Don.

"Shall we go in now?" Alan was talking again, hesitating, and giving him choices.

_Hobson's choice._

In the end, it was _Hobson's choice._ Charlie straightened, and nodded wordlessly. He'd been priding himself on his show of strength, but he'd just come pretty close to caving. Dad was so sure – _so certain_ – about this, and there was still plenty of work to be done.

Okay, so maybe Don couldn't hear them, but he could sense them _and_ feel their presence. He'd done enough research on Cognitive Emergence to understand it was possible in theory. Hell, if a single-celled piece of slime mould knew when it had been abandoned, then why not a human being in a coma?

He followed Alan into the cubicle, slightly ashamed of his moment of panic. Whatever the possible outcome, he would be right here to help dad shoulder the brunt of it. Dad needed him – his family needed him. This time, he wasn't going to let them down.

Once inside, he reasserted himself. Now he was closer, it didn't seem quite so scary. He tried to forget the intrusive machines and focus more clearly on Don. Underneath all the spectacular bruising, the pallid face was so familiar. It was an integer, a time-honoured part of his life, and yet, it remained an unknown.

He sighed, and ruffled his hand through his hair. _Was there a particular form of etiquette for sickrooms?_ He and Alan took up their vigil like bookends, one either side of the bed.

Don's arms lay outside the covering sheet, as strong and compact, as ever. Lightly tanned, with a smattering of fine dark hairs, and linear with muscle definition. They were flecked with cuts and grazes, stippled blue/black with the shade of fresh bruises. Charlie swallowed, as he lifted the motionless hand, being careful not to touch the plastic cannula. He tried not to imagine the rest of the damage, hidden away under the sheet.

Don's hands – piano player's hands.

They were blunt now, skinned and abraded. There was dried blood still ingrained around the cuticles where it hadn't been sponged away yet. The hand felt heavy and inert in his. There was no response, no sensation. Each finger curled upwards and inwards, acquiescent and strangely pliant.

It was horribly unnerving to see him like this. Don so wired, so tense and energetic. Even when he was supposed to be relaxing, there was always some part of him on the go. He was a tapper, an inveterate knee jiggler. Charlie recalled it had driven mom crazy. They had inevitably reached a stage when she'd given up trying to make Don keep still.

_He was still now. _

So still, Charlie hated it. He could see dad did too.

_What was it Marie Senecal had said?_

Something about resting and healing.

"Take as long as you need, bro," he said, softly. "Just make sure you come back to us whole."

There was no answer and he didn't expect one, but merely saying the words made him feel better. He held onto Don's hand a little tighter. No way was he letting it go.

"What's so funny?" Alan quirked an eyebrow and looked across at him quizzically. "Something I maybe should know about, or just private between you and Don?"

Charlie smiled. "Can you imagine if he opened his eyes right now and caught me here, holding his hand?"

Alan gave a watery snort. "I don't think he'd be very impressed."

"Tough," he looked down at the battered cuticles, and swallowed hard. "You know what, I couldn't care less."

"He doesn't mean it," _was Alan sad again?_ "Deep down, he's a real softie. He finds it easier to pretend the hits don't hurt him. To shrug them off and bury them away. _Dear lord . . ."_

Charlie shivered, he couldn't help it. Their eyes met across the coverlet. But the words had slipped out inadvertently; _not the greatest choice in the world._

"It's okay, dad."

"No, it's not," Alan answered. His distress was clear. "To think of him, _there,_ underneath all that. I keep seeing it, _hearing it,_ over and over, but there was nothing I could do to help. Oh, Donnie, I would have done anything . . . I just hope you know that?"

"He knows," Charlie sincerely believed it. "You spoke to him, remember? While I . . . I was with John Murdoch . . . you were supporting him, helping him through."

Alan regarded him shrewdly then, his own grief and anguish forgotten.

"Charlie, you did what you felt was right. It's thanks to you they stabilised the building. If they hadn't begun working on the damaged floors, the team couldn't have gone inside. You played your part - we all did – and in the end, we got your brother out alive."

"I know."

_And he did. _

It didn't help though.

He knew now, he should have spoken to Don.

"You knew I didn't want to talk to you," he whispered the words ever so softly. "I left you down there thinking I'd ignored you. I was an idiot, and I was so afraid. Oh God, I'm so sorry, bro."

A little late, but maybe better than never. He hoped – really prayed Don could hear him. It was half of the truth, if he was honest, and his real motives didn't bear that close a scrutiny. Maybe one day, when this was all over, he'd be able to examine them more closely?

_Either that, or hopefully forget about them, but right now just wasn't the time. _

Later on, he would call Amita and apprise her of the situation. With any luck, she wouldn't be too angry with him, when she found out what had happened to Don. After that, he would speak to CalSci and tell them he was taking some time off. He would have to hand over his classes and put in for compassionate leave.

_As long as it takes. _

He looked at Don again.

_This time, he wasn't going anywhere. _

_**TBC**_


	17. Chapter 17

Benedictus

_In the tender compassion of our God _

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us, _

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet intothe way of peace._

_From the **Benedictus - Song of Zechariah - The Gospel of Luke**_

* * *

**_Part Seventeen_**

In his dreams, he was still trapped beneath the rubble. Either that or floating underwater. The heaviness was cruel and overpowering. It engulfed and pressed down on his chest. He raged in a crescendo of panic, trying to break through the layers of darkness. But there was no escaping from the confines of the void space, and to fight only made matters worse.

"Easy son, just keep breathing. It's okay, they took out the tube."

_Well, all right then. _

That made it clearer.

Put things in a whole different light.

It was dad's voice, calm and filled with conviction. Firm in the assurance he was right.

And he u_sually _was_,_ Don knew from experience. It was a timeworn and often annoying certainty.

He kept breathing, and did as he was told for once. And it _was_ better once he'd stopped struggling. He was weightless, sinking down through black velvet, as he drifted away, out of reach.

_The next time he woke, it was different_.

He was on fire in a white heat of agony. His whole being was consumed, being eaten alive, in an excoriating burn of pain. _No air, there was no air._ He couldn't breathe. Couldn't outrun the scorching flames. He fought them and struggled as hard as he could. _Futile - the effort was futile._ Twisting his body in an effort to escape from the heat, but there were hands on him, holding him down.

_The strut_ . . . there had been an explosion.

He saw odd fragments in his delirium. He remembered the overwhelming claustrophobia, the crushing sense of loneliness and pain. He was still down here . . . still trapped in the confusion. His mind was playing spiteful tricks on him. They'd left him, abandoned in the darkness.

The rescue attempt must have failed.

He cried then. Or maybe he thought he did. He couldn't deal . . . couldn't stand it. He forgot about pride and any shred of self-respect, and called out, pleading with them to help him.

He wanted . . . no, he_ begged_ for it to be over.

_Anything to take away the pain. _

He was so hot. He could feel his skin shrivelling. It was probably the flames from the explosion. The blaze must have ripped through the building, and he was terrified the fire might have spread. He'd been drowning, but now he was burning. His muscles recoiling and contorting. He could only taste dust, and his mouth was so dry. The relentless heat scorched him alive.

There were words again, someone was talking. Repeating things over and over. Their voice hoarse and rasping as they pleaded for help. Eventually, he thought it might be him.

"Easy Don, it's okay, you're safe now."

_Why the hell did they keep saying it was easy?_

It was dad - either dad or Charlie. He wished they would shut up and leave him alone, but instead, the words kept right on coming. This time, they didn't sound so self-assured. They were full of fear, and verging on hysteria, as they told him he had to stay calm_. In a weird kind of way, it was funny . . . dear God, it was fucking hilarious._ Didn't they realise he was the king of calm, that he'd tried to stay calm his whole life?

Yeah, he understood, he was cool with it.

_Get on with it, Eppes, keep your head down. _

Do your job well, take care of your family; it's good to know you're the stoical type.

'_I wondered, I guessed and I tried, you just knew . . .' _

Yet more words - they circled around in his head. There was a song he'd liked during the eighties. He'd played it over and over, until he knew all the lyrics off by heart. For some reason, it struck a giant chord with him, and captured his imagination. It was symbolic of his silent rebellion at the way things had been back then. He'd thrummed with angst and teenaged resentment, which stirred inside him with a surfeit of hormones. There were times when it burned deep and black in his heart, as glowing and dark as a flame. He'd been jealous because he was human, but fiercely proud of his geeky, little brother. The words of the song had helped him, had proved an escape valve of sorts.

There'd been a moment – he remembered it well - when he'd come to a firm decision. The thought had seeded and expanded inside him. He would never be a Cain to Charlie's Abel.

So from then on, he'd simply got on with it. Became more patient about the whole situation. Charlie's gift was far more important. _Charlie had special needs._ He'd come home and sort out the supper, while mom spent her free time with his brother; wash his kit and stop ever hoping to see her smiling face in the stands.

'_I was grounded, while you filled the skies . . .'_

He heard those lyrics now, over and over, while the flames licked and crackled at his skin. The words taunted him, round and around in his head, on repeat, like a drunken carousel.

_Infection . . . too hot . . ._

He could have told them that.

He was on fire, his whole body burning.

He flinched, and tried to twist away from them, as cool fingers trailed over his forehead. Blessedly cold with a hint of . . . _hell, was that lavender?_ He signed and turned back into the touch.

"That's good, Don," it sounded like Charlie.

_Must be some trick or illusion. _

His brain cells must be more fried than he'd thought.

_His brother wasn't talking to him._

He'd only been trying to do what was right. To keep Charlie safe and out of danger. He hadn't meant to come down on him quite so hard, or to act like some tin pot dictator. _They were supposed to be part of the same team, right? _That's how they worked, they were tight together. And then Charlie had gone off on some gung-ho quest, and tried to do his own thing. He was in search of the whole of the moon again – his trail-blazing comet of a brother.

Did Charlie truly believe he was holding him back?

That he – _Don _– was dragging him down?

Couldn't he see it had almost cost him his life? There were always ramifications. Every action had some kind of consequence – an end reckoning which had to be paid_._

_Or was he was wrong . . . he just didn't know anymore. _

After all, he wasn't the genius. The last twelve months had thrown him a few curved balls. Turned out nothing was quite the way it seemed. Him and Liz and Megan and Larry. His strengthening relationship with Charlie. And then, perched like a poisoned cherry on top, there was the Janus List and whole Granger thing.

_Everything he'd built and fought for – perhaps it was all another illusion?_

Someone had pulled the rug out from under him. He was flat on his ass on the ground. He was tired, so tired of everything. No longer sure if it was worth it. He'd always lived by a strong set of moral codes – always tried to fight the good fight.

He was so very weary, and he hurt so much. The fire writhed and slithered all over him. He was sweltering, reaching boiling point. _Maybe he should give into the flames?_

Easy – they kept saying it was easy.

Telling him to hang on in there.

He was no longer sure if he wanted to.

_No longer sure if he could. _

* * *

"I'm sorry, but it's what we were concerned about. The culture tests came back positive. Don has what we call an SSI or surgical site infection. Quite frankly, it's due to the immersion, and in a way, it was almost inevitable."

"I don't understand – why should this happen now?" Alan tried not to sound too accusatory. "He's been on antibiotics the whole time."

"I'm afraid it isn't quite as simple as that. There was a whole cocktail of nasty micro-organisms floating around in that water." Marie Senecal regarded them sympathetically, and reached across to touch Alan's hand. "Some of them are quite slow growing, and took a while to get a hold on Don's immune system. They triggered an uncontrolled, inflammatory response, and severe systemic infection."

"So what's the plan?" Charlie asked, steadily.

"We've pulled out all the stops now. He's on some pretty, strong antibiotics. With any luck, he'll begin to respond to them, and his temperature will start coming down."

"_With any luck?"_ Charlie repeated. "Doesn't sound very scientific. Will they cancel out the infection or not - can't you be more specific than that?"

"I wish I could," her tone was soft, "but his fever is very high. There's a very great danger of respiratory distress and multiple organ failure."

"But he's only just started to breathe on his own," Alan sounded lost and frightened.

She sighed. "If he doesn't start to respond within the next few hours, then we'll be forced to ventilate him again."

Charlie got to his feet. "I've heard enough of this. It's as though he's given up on us. He's just lying there, letting this engulf him. He should be . . . he should be fighting back."

"No, Charlie," Marie was specific. "Don has no real control over this. He's trying to ward off a massive infection and his body is very weak. I know there's a whole school of thought out there, one which a lot of people try to cling to. The idea that someone can pull through in the end, because they're stronger – a better fighter. In a way, it's a kind of fascism, and grossly insulting to those who never make it. It leaves the unspoken question; did they choose to give up and die?"

"Think of your mother," Alan stood at his side. "She was like Don, so strong and stubborn. Part of the problem was, she hated to leave us so much. She never gave in – never wanted to die. And neither does Don, you can be sure of that. I know he's doing everything he can."

Charlie lowered his head in denial. He was swamped, and confused with old images. He thought of Don's recent behaviour, and was tempted to tell them the truth.

_Would it change things_? he asked himself, honestly.

He knew, deep down, it couldn't make any difference. The only object he would accomplish for certain was more upset and distress. Dad was already struggling, he wouldn't add to the weight of his burden. If Don died, it was a moot question, anyway. Except, that _he_ would always have to live with it. He knew it would lurk, dark and swirling, as elusive as P v NP – forever there, in the recesses of his memory. It would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a typical Don-like gesture. It occurred to him, and not for the first time, they weren't in fact so unalike.

"This infection – could it be catching? Is it dangerous to any of Don's visitors?"

"No, not really, it's more the other way around. Don's the one more at risk. He's weak and immuno-compromised. Unable to fight anything off."

"Charlie, where are you going with this?" Alan looked at him curiously. "You know that's why Don's on restricted visiting. Hard as it seems, it's for his own good right now. At the moment, it's just you and I."

"Listen," he spoke in earnest. "I accept everything you've been saying, but it isn't about expecting too much from him, or underestimating how ill he is. He should have died down in that void space. That he survived is nothing short of a miracle. There was something – one thing in particular – which gave him the will to hold on."

"The baby." Alan understood now.

"Benedicta. She kept him alive."

"Now, wait a minute, what are you suggesting? That Marissa brings her into the hospital? You need to take a good look around you; this is hardly the best environment for a young child."

Charlie made a desperate gesture. "Why are we all so concerned about rules, if there's a chance – any chance Don might respond to her? And Marie, you said she wouldn't be at risk – that she can't pick up any infection. Surely, we should hazard a long shot if you're positive no harm can come to her?"

"It isn't really good practise or policy to allow infants onto the unit . . ."

"Basically, you just told us he's going to die. Isn't it . . . _dear God, it's got to be._ Isn't it, at least, worth a try?"

"Marie?" Alan looked at the doctor. "Is he right, is that what you're saying? That this time, he's not going to make it. Are you telling us Don's going to die?"

"There are no definites," her voice was hesitant. She looked at Charlie in an attempt to include him. "Or at least not in my world, anyway. Unlike mathematics which has a unique conclusion, the only real certitude in medicine, is that there is no consistent outcome. No one can predict the ending. There are too many subjective variables. Living and dying – it's not an exact science – but it's my job to prepare you for the worse."

"No definites," Charlie muttered, and shook his head. He was treading in a world without logic. He hated the feeling of uncertainty - the sense of thin ice on the ground. "Don't you see, this merely backs up my argument? I've been in regular contact – speaking to Marissa, and she's agreed to bring Benedicta in."

"Charlie's right," Alan looked at Don through the glass. They were speaking outside in the corridor. "I think we owe it to him to try anything – to pull out all the damned stops. Heaven knows he deserves it. He deserves every chance we can give him."

"With a caveat," she nodded, resignedly. "We do some swab cultures on the baby. If we're going to do this, there's no point being sloppy, or taking unnecessary risks."

"I'll go get her," Charlie turned on his heel. "She's here now, I already called her. I – I thought about bringing the baby in when Don took a turn for the worse."

"Then I'd better come and organise those cultures."

* * *

Charlie glanced at the woman beside him. She smiled up at him, reassuringly. He reached across for the baby and took her gently into his arms. _So yes, he'd been talking to Marissa._ Several times a day since the explosion. Rather more than he'd been talking to Amita, in fact, but he couldn't confront that just yet.

"Thank you, thank you so much for doing this," his voice was decidedly husky.

"Please, Charlie, don't even say it. It's the very least we can do."

The swab cultures had been acceptable, and Marie had finally given her permission. They paused for a moment in the corridor just beyond the glass screens to Don's room.

"Oh God."

Charlie tracked Marissa's gaze, and watched as her lips parted in shock. Her reaction really didn't surprise him. He felt it every time he saw his brother. The banks of machines and beeping lights made Don look smaller and somehow transparent. He forced aside the emotion which dogged him. The sense Don was already gone.

"I know, it looks kind of frightening. It's so strange to see him like this. He's always so vital, so active. He has – you know – a genuine sense of presence."

"You really look up to him, don't you?

_Did he? _

The pain hit him then, hard and bittersweet, as he continued to stare into the room. It was true – in the past he always had done. Don was his big brother, his hero. But lately, had he subconsciously rejected the idea, and deliberately pushed it away?

It was not something Don had ever been happy with – in that way, he was a typical, older brother. He'd hated Charlie trailing around after him. When he was a teenager it got on his nerves. As they'd grown older, the dynamics had shifted. They'd drifted and seen little of each other. The link between them was tenuous to say the least, and had almost dwindled away.

Then Don came home, and everything seemed different. He'd taken charge with his usual efficiency. He was cool, his presence reassuring, as strong and sure as a rock. And later, when he'd recovered from his mother's death, Charlie had wanted to find out more about his brother. Who he was, what he'd been doing, and most of all, what made him tick.

It had been hard, but eventually he'd done it.

Wormed his way beneath those stubborn defences.

And they'd managed to forge a brand new relationship through his work for the FBI.

But recently, it had been different. There'd been a conflict of interest between them. He was afraid things were gradually eroding again, in-spite of all the effort they'd both made.

Then a week ago, the tower had exploded, and taken everything with it. The chaotic routine of his unstructured world, with its disorganised but comforting regime. _Taken it, and turned it all upside down._ Like the bomb had wrecked the tower's foundations. A week ago, the preparations for the party had been the biggest source of stress in his life.

Well, since then, Oasis Towers had been saved.

_Now all they had to do was save Don. _

He realised, with a slight jolt of surprise, it was already the last night of Hanukkah. He knew dad had been lighting a candle for Don, and reciting the holy blessings every evening. Back at the Craftsman, there was a pile of presents, stacked up and waiting to be opened. What would they do, he wondered, with a lump in his throat, if their recipient never came home?

The baby patted his face with her sweet, little hands, and arched her back, making her presence known.

He recollected why they had come here, and bravely tried to explain.

"All my life, when we've been together, he's been my guardian and kind of looked out for me. At high school, he got in fights on my behalf; guess he was always my reluctant protector." He paused for breath, he couldn't help it, and a single tear tracked down his cheek. Lifting his head, he looked at Don's face through the glass, as he tried to answer Marissa's question. "He'd give his life for me without even having to think – not just for me, but for a total stranger. I know it's what he does – what he gets paid for, but with Don, it's more than that,_ it's who he is._ I think what I'm trying to tell you, is yes, I guess he really _is_ a hero."

"Have you told him - does he know how much you care about him?" Marissa touched his arm softly. "I hope so, because if he doesn't, it would be a crying shame."

_A crying shame. _

Well, that was one way of putting it.

He examined it from his perspective. It was easy to put a one-sided spin on things. It was the way he'd seen most issues lately, he accepted with a frisson of pain.

"I hope so, too."

And if he didn't, then Charlie would tell him.

All assuming he was going to make it.

Charlie was fast running out of suppositions, and there was no guarantee that he would. The baby made a gurgling sound in her throat. As though she was trying to reassure him. She tilted her head and watched him, her eyes as bright and round as a bird's.

Why did he feel she was Don's last chance?

_He'd accused Marie of not being scientific._

It was foolish and totally irrational.

He felt a ridiculous surge of hope.

_**TBC**_


	18. Chapter 18

**_Benedictus_**

_In the tender compassion of our God _

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us, _

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet intothe way of peace._

_From the** Benedictus - Song of Zechariah - The Gospel of Luke**_

* * *

_**Part Eighteen**_

The temperature was cool in Don's cubicle, and the lighting was subdued around the bed. Charlie wavered for a second on the threshold, and was assaulted by a wave of despair. He looked at his brother more closely. Don appeared to be dreaming. His eyelids were fluttering in REM sleep, as he muttered, and then tossed his head.

_What was he thinking – what the hell was he thinking? _

Did he even know they were here?

Charlie was assailed by a torrent of doubts.

This was fruitless.

A dumb idea.

There had been no improvement since this morning. Perhaps he should just wise up and face it. It looked like the antibiotics weren't working, there was nothing more anyone could do.

_Was he right to ask this of Marissa?_

Right now, the whole concept seemed ludicrous. His behaviour had been totally illogical - irrational and based on fear. He was relying on something so tenuous, that he couldn't even strive to put a name to it. It was faith healing, smoke and mirrors. At best, a small glimmer of hope.

Don was still now, and his breathing was shallow. His hair stuck in damp strands to his forehead. The infection rampaged through his body unchecked. He was deteriorating, getting worse.

Alan glanced up as they entered the cubicle. He was sat in a chair by the bed. The nurses had told them that talking was good, and might help Don find his way back to them, so Alan had taken the advice to heart and been at his side ever since. Their eyes met and held very briefly. Charlie watched as he sighed and shook his head.

"They're going re-intubate him. His oxygen sats have gone down."

_What was the point_ – Charlie hesitated.

He was suddenly exhausted, _broken._ It was happening, dear God, it was happening. The very thing he had been so afraid of, they would have to endure it again. This time, there would be no hiding place in the chalk-dust filled haven of the garage. No refuge in the safety of numbers, no descent into P v NP. He would be forced to watch as Don slipped away. As his body was engulfed by the infection.

He swallowed; _the thought was even more horrifying than the inevitability of his reaction._

He tried to take a step, but he couldn't move, his feet were set in stone. If he could, he might even have turned and fled, but he was fixed in place and frozen to the ground. He clung onto the baby mechanically and for a second, forgot she was there.

She didn't let him though – _wasn't having it._ Her back arched as she struggled against him. She went rigid and drummed against his ribcage with surprisingly hard, little feet. In a way, it was just what he needed. It hauled him back out of his stupor. He knew how a landed fish felt right now – gulping and gasping for air.

She was certainly making her presence known, and it was impossible to ignore her. He held a wriggling, demanding bundle in his arms, insistent and full of life. The trouble was, he didn't know what to do with her. He held her away from him, awkwardly. Her eyes narrowed as she glared at him and opened her mouth. She screwed up her face and wailed.

Helplessly, Charlie twisted around. He hadn't bargained on this.

Marissa was still standing at the entrance to the room, and he gave her an imploring look. She hesitated for a second, and then shook her head, waving him back as she turned away.

_Great – this was just great - what did he do with her now?_

His heart sank as the baby cried harder.

"There, there," he patted her, gingerly.

She paused and blinked, and for a moment, he could have sworn she looked at him in disbelief.

_He didn't blame her._

On the whole, she was right, it was pretty lame. He might have laughed if he wasn't feeling hysterical.

"Charlie," Alan frowned at him. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea."

_Maybe it wasn't. _

Dad's words echoed his earlier thoughts, but he'd been desperate - clutching at straws. He was frantic to try anything and everything, which might bring his silent brother back to life. _How could one small person make so much noise?_ Charlie flinched as he tried to placate her. As much as he'd hated the awful hush, it was preferable to this deafening cacophony. The noise reached an ear-splitting crescendo, as the cubicle rang with her screams.

Charlie couldn't stand much more of this. By now, he'd reached the end of his tether. He heaved her up, facing over his shoulder, and turned rather sharply on his heel.

_Benedicta stopped crying immediately._

The sudden quiet was almost resounding.

Charlie hovered, facing the doorway, as he hesitated, poised for flight.

"What just happened?" He tried to strain his head backwards. "What did you do, how'd you make her stop crying?"

"I didn't." _How come dad sounded so funny_? "Charlie, bring her closer to Don."

He took a couple of tentative steps backwards. It was difficult to see where he was going. The last thing he wanted was to startle the baby and set her off like a siren again.

"That's far enough. Turn around slowly."

His thighs bumped the edge of the mattress as dad guided him up to the bedside. His heart sank, and he prepared himself for the worse, as the baby started wriggling again. He patted her gently on the back, but this time, his fears were unfounded. She'd undergone some form of miraculous transformation, as she gurgled and laughed in his ear. Her little face positively beamed with delight, and she smiled at something over his shoulder. Charlie knew then, as he turned around carefully, she was cooing and babbling at Don.

"_Hello Sweetie - " _Don's voice sounded dreadful, but no one really cared about that.

His head shifted an inch or two on the pillow, and his dark eyes opened a crack. He still looked ghastly – confused and pasty white – his brow furrowed with tramlines of pain.

Right now, Charlie really couldn't give a damn.

_Don was responding and gloriously alive. _

He stared over the top of the baby's head, and realised Alan was weeping. He sympathised with him one hundred per cent. He was feeling pretty shaky himself.

_The crying_, he thought, incoherently, _it must have been all the screeching. _

It must have flipped some kind of switch in Don's brain. The racket had jolted him awake.

It was more than that, he acknowledged, as he sat there, feeling high on relief. It was something to do with the sound itself, as opposed to just an onslaught of decibels. The self-same thing he'd railed against – Don's inherent, protective instinct. The part of him which, even now, responded, to the urgency of Benedicta's cry. All those hours spent down in the darkness, when it had been just him and the baby, he'd saved her from the force of the explosion and held her young life in his hands.

Charlie guessed – _no, he sensed_ - they had forged a bond. Something strong and tangibly enduring. He'd heard it in the transcripts of the cell-phone conversations, and seen for himself on the screen. _Benedicta had come to symbolise Don's relentless will to survive._ Realisation blossomed and dawned in him then. He'd been wrong – so very wrong about his brother. Don would never shirk his duty towards his family or team by surrendering to personal need.

_The necessity to shield the baby - his sense of responsibility._

It was too strong, too deeply imprinted, to allow him to give up and die.

He didn't really know how he felt about that. He was suddenly flooded with sorrow. What had they done to the man in the bed to make him feel second best?

_He knew the answer, of course._

Same as it had always been. His gift – his curse and his genius. The part of him he could no more deny than his brother's compulsion to protect.

It didn't matter how bad Don was feeling. How low or how deeply depressed. He would not shirk his sense of obligation or abandon the rest of his team. Charlie considered the day of the explosion. He thought of Megan, of David and Colby. Of their bravery and steadfast determination as they battled the toughest of odds. Even Liz . . . he remembered how moved she'd been. He'd seen her wipe her eyes on more than one occasion. All of them, including the computer techs, they'd all done their bit to save Don. He'd understood their behaviour was a tribute of sorts. Homage to the type of man his brother was. It ran deeper than plain loyalty or duty, it was a mark of their allegiance and respect.

The baby wriggled again, and reached out her arms. He positioned her a little nearer, shifting the chair up as close as he dared, so she was perched on the edge of the bed. He was careful – and worried he might hurt Don. The damaged pelvis was painfully obvious. The last thing he wanted was to mess this up now. Not while things were still so fragile.

He was aware of dad reaching for the call-bell, and the sound of voices talking in the corridor. Perversely, he hoped they would leave them alone. Stay away for a little while longer.

He wanted . . . _dear God, it was selfish of him._

_There was so much he wanted to say. _

Don's eyes were still open but glazed in pain. He seemed unaware of his surroundings. He was fixed instead, on the baby, and Charlie thought he saw a spark of relief. He waited to see what Don would do next; if he would say something, _anything_ again, but he'd almost exhausted his reserves now. He looked worn out and utterly frail.

He lifted his hand, or rather tried to, the movement was heartbreakingly feeble. He was obviously searching for the baby, but didn't quite have the strength to reach her. Charlie knew then what he had to do. He looked across at Marissa. She nodded back in confirmation, as he stood up and placed the baby on the bed. He did it cautiously – oh, so cautiously. Don was so fragile and broken. He was terrified Benedicta would struggle and cause his brother more pain.

_It was almost as if she understood._

As if the banshee had turned into an angel.

She lay quietly in the crook of Don's arm and turned her head into his chest.

They must have spent hours seeking comfort like this, down in the darkness, buried under the rubble. The two of them, relying on each other. Both dependent on the other one's survival - _simply holding on to stay alive._

Don sighed, he seemed less agitated now. As though he'd finally found what he'd been searching for. His eyes were closed again, the lids pale and translucent, but this time, Charlie didn't worry. He reached out and tentatively smoothed Don's brow. The deep creases had vanished from his forehead. For the first time in what seemed like forever, his brother looked merely asleep.

The baby too.

She snuggled peacefully against him.

Their tiny blessing, their own little miracle.

The sweeping curve of her lashes like two small fans on her cheek.

* * *

At first, he thought perhaps he'd overslept. A retribution for the bottle of Jack. He was going to have a doozy of a hangover judging by the pounding in his head. He kept his eyes closed, and lay still a while longer, too reluctant to risk the inevitable nausea. There'd been too many of these mornings lately, and he was getting kind of used to the drill.

A cool draft was wafting in from somewhere. Must have left the window open. It was blowing continuously over him, the chilled air directly on his face. He blinked – it was vaguely annoying. _His bed wasn't facing the window. _Another minute and he couldn't stand any more of it.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

"Welcome back, son."

It was dad, and he was holding his hand. Even worse, it looked like he was crying. Openly and unabashedly, the salt tears rolling down and dripping off his chin.

"Dad?"

Shit, his voice sounded terrible. As though his poor throat had been sandblasted. And now he came to think of it, it felt that too, red raw and unbearably painful. _And his ears,_ his hearing was muted, like he was trying to listen underwater. Or on the end of a bad cell connection several hundreds of miles away.

Dad wiped a handkerchief over his face, he looked pinched and fraught with anxiety. Don knew something was very wrong, when he gave him a watery smile. "I'm here, I'm not going anywhere. Just relax and take your time."

Well, okay, but he couldn't take much more of this. Either the icy draft _or _dad's odd behaviour.

He felt lost and clearly out of the loop – _what the hell had happened to him?_

"Please don't cry."

It made him uncomfortable. Took him back to the days when mom was dying. Dad had wept enough for all three of them then, a veritable ocean of tears. He'd been stone-faced himself, he remembered, striving to keep things as normal as possible. He'd tried his best to support them. To bear all the weight like a beam.

_A beam_ . . . oh God . . . he remembered it then. It hit him hard, like the explosion. The power of the blast forcing him backwards, and then the darkness of his plunge into hell.

"Easy, Don."

Dad's hand was on his shoulder. Reassuring him, and pressing him backwards. Nonetheless, he resisted for a moment, and ended up fighting for air.

_Oh yeah, he could see it all now._ The images, bright as a slideshow. A reel of memories, lurid and nightmarish, all jostling for space inside his head. He took a breath, and tried to breathe through the agony. He had to control the panic. His body felt broken – _in pieces_ – and for a second, he was back there again.

Forgotten down in the void-space.

Trapped under the weight of the girder.

"There was a bomb . . ."

"Shush, Donnie, don't think about it. You're safe now, safe. We've got you."

He closed his eyes, and tried to do as he was told. He was safe now because dad said so. But the fear remained, real and persistent. There was still something terribly wrong.

"Can you hear me, Don?"

It was another voice, soft and feminine, with an attractive trace of an accent. He knew he should attempt to answer her, but he could hardly even think through the pain.

"Yeah."

He just about grunted a single word. It came out hoarsely, as though he'd been strangled.

"That's good, I'm glad you can hear me. It's nice to see that you're finally awake."

"Cold . . . I'm so cold."

He tried to lift his hand. It was a poor effort, frighteningly feeble. The icy draft still blew relentlessly; a blast of chilled air on his face.

"You've been pyrexial – had a very high fever. We needed to cool you right down."

He shivered and thought of the void space. It felt like he'd been cold forever. He'd been reconciled, and pretty damned sure, he would never be warm again. _They'd saved him._ It was coming back to him now. Pulled him out - out from underneath the wreckage. There was something about Granger and angels. _What the fuck_ - _that was one scary picture._ After that, it all went kind of fuzzy. The drugs must have affected his head.

On the whole, he guessed he should be feeling happier, but there was only a strange, white emptiness. If he didn't know any better, he could almost believe he was dead. He kept fading - drifting in and out of things. There were voices and gentle hands touching him. He didn't know how long he'd been sleeping, but it was dark when he woke up again.

Someone kind – he guessed it was dad – gave him slivers of ice to suck on. They were cool, and he relished them greedily, allowing them to melt on his tongue. He figured he was in a hospital, and supposed he should ask about his injuries. Perhaps he could postpone that until later. He was too tired - too tired and scared.

Blood – he recalled there had been plenty of blood. It had soaked through his clothes and his Kevlar. And a terrible, grating pain in his gut, which had travelled down into the tops of both legs. As for the rest of it, it was obvious his ears were still fucked; he only hoped it wouldn't prove to be permanent. A couple of ribs, he was certain, and a few hefty whacks to the head. He grimaced, and would have smiled if he could. The head thing probably wouldn't be a problem. As dad and Charlie were so fond of telling him, he'd always been kind of thick-skulled.

But he hurt.

_God, he hurt. _

Every part of him - with a burning, feverish agony. It was futile trying to catalogue his injuries by himself, when he felt like a mass of pain. He bit his lip and sought to look on the bright side. It was still there, albeit a tad tarnished. The soreness, the screaming nerve endings, it was better than being numb.

At least he still had a few working parts.

It had crossed his mind down there, in the darkness.

The strut had been made of solid concrete, fully capable of crushing a man.

He knew it hadn't rested entirely on him, but he had certainly taken the brunt of it. There'd been broken pipes and some chunks of cement, and the remains of the devastated corridor. In a way he'd been amazingly lucky. For some reason, he felt like crying. He didn't though . . . _of course he didn't_ . . . he recoiled at the thought of such a scene.

Instead, he made the effort to re-open his eyes, and promptly wished he hadn't bothered.

Talking of crying, he could see Alan properly now, all the deep-seated grief and lines of anguish. Don felt horrible, unaccountably guilty, to know he was the cause of such distress. The waterworks told him how close it had been. Not that he needed much telling. To be honest, he was surprised he'd made it. That he hadn't died down in the pit.

"Sweetie, she was here . . . did I dream it?"

He wasn't sure which was fact or fiction.

Either his princess had been in the room, or these really _were_ pretty good drugs.

"She was here yesterday morning." Alan paused, "Charlie brought her. He thought you might want to see for yourself. To make sure she was safe and sound."

"She _is,_ right?"

"She is, thanks to you. Most definitely." Alan confirmed, with a smile.

"S'good."

"Very good," Alan stroked his head. "You did well, Don, you did something very special. I'm so proud of you, we all are. You saved that precious, little girl's life."

He frowned, and thought about it for a second or two. _God, if only they knew._ Would they still think he was such a hero if he told them the unvarnished truth?

He wasn't the man they thought he was. He wasn't brave, in-fact he was a fraud. He'd been caught up in a frantic series of events which had snowballed out of control. He had a sudden flashback to his reaction in the Crèche. He'd been irritated – inconvenienced. There was no way he'd wanted the baby back then. There'd been other things on his mind.

Other things which made him ashamed now.

God, he wasn't brave, he was a coward.

He'd been hell-bent on crashing and burning.

_On running away from his life. _

"No, dad . . ."

He had to set the record straight. If there was one thing he despised, it was hypocrisy. He could feel himself becoming agitated. He endeavoured to push his body upright. _Had to tell them, had to explain._

_Pain then . . . like a white heat of torture. _

His gut twisted in sudden nausea. He cried out, and fell back gasping. The room darkened as he gulped for air. He rode it, or at least, he tried to. An alarm was beeping shrilly in the background. There was something pressing down, really hurting him. Some sort of metal cage around his hips.

"It's all right, Don, can you hear me? I've just given you another dose of Demerol. We'll fix you up a self-administering pump, but for now, you need to breathe through the pain."

It was the woman – he presumed she was his doctor. The one with the sexy accent. He screwed his eyes tightly together and strove to focus in on her voice.

"That's good. Nice and slow – it should be working very soon. You have to promise me no more sudden movements. It took a lot of time and effort just to put you back together. We don't want you breaking things again."

He lay back, and concentrated on his breathing. A few more seconds, and the alarm stopped beeping. He could feel the effects of the Demerol as it started to flow through his veins. Warm, it made him feel warmer now, his abdomen aching not shrieking. He was shattered and his limbs felt heavy. The room took on a slight yellow haze.

He made a vague, downwards gesture. "What's wrong . . . what happened to me?"

"Don," Alan shot a quick look at the doctor. "The beam fractured your pelvis and did quite a bit of damage. You were badly hurt and bleeding inside. The doctors had to pin the bones back together."

A fractured pelvis.

Well, he'd guessed there were broken bones.

_He'd felt them grating together. _

The next question had already sprung to his lips. He had to ask – had to know.

"Long term?"

The doctor answered. "It's early days, but we're hopeful. In some ways, you were very lucky. You also smashed one of your vertebrae but the fragments didn't penetrate the spinal cord. The pelvic fracture caused plenty of problems, but it's what we would describe as stable. Although it's going to need a lot of patience, it should heal very well in time."

"And I'll walk again, I'll be okay?"

"Not now, Donnie, you really should rest. There'll be time enough for questions later . . ."

"Yes, now." He interrupted curtly, he sounded harsh, surly even. Some of the answers might be terrifying, but in the end, he still needed to hear them. "Look, I have to know what I'm up against. Please – just tell me the truth?"

"Fair enough," the doctor interceded. "I agree, you have a right to know."

"Thank you," he sank back against the pillow again.

"Hey, anything to make you lie still."

He listened as she explained it to him. The Demerol made it difficult to concentrate. Very soon, he realised to his chagrin, he was drifting off, falling asleep. He fought it, and made an effort to focus, as he tried to pay attention to her voice. Oh yeah, he'd known from the start, he was badly hurt, but the details made uncomfortable listening. From the sounds of things, he'd truly defied all the odds.

_It was a miracle he was alive. _

He would be pinned into the cage for twelve long weeks, and the treatment was going to be long and arduous. He was stuck here, a prisoner on bed rest, until they got him up and walking again. And after that, a wheelchair for at least two months, until his damaged bones had started healing. In short, it would take the best part of a year to regain his stability and strength.

"A whole year," he groaned at the thought of it.

"A year is certainly the average."

"Okay," for the first time, he managed a smile. "Bet I can cut it down to six months."

"Is he always like this?" she sounded amused.

Alan rolled his eyes and nodded. "You wait until he's feeling better. It's going to get a lot worse."

Don reached for him across the counterpane, their fingers curling tightly together. He was glad to see some of dad's worry had faded, and the warmth of his hand felt good. The Demerol was doing its thing now. The pain was easier, and he could feel himself floating. He was weak as a wet rag and desperately tired, despite all the fighting talk.

He'd made it, in-spite of everything.

He was alive.

He could hardly believe it.

Now, he supposed, all he had to do, was haul his damned ass out of bed.

_**TBC**_


	19. Chapter 19

**_Benedictus_**

_In the tender compassion of our God _

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us, _

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet intothe way of peace._

_From the** Benedictus - Song of Zechariah - The Gospel of Luke**_

* * *

_**Part Nineteen**_

Don gripped onto the walker and made his own way back from the bathroom. The short journey was slow and tortuous, he was shuffling like a little old man. He gritted his teeth in determination. It was a whole lot harder than he'd anticipated, but it was ten weeks after the explosion, and at long last, he was free of the cage. It had taken yet more surgery to remove it, but by then, he'd been going stir crazy. He'd hated the metal torture device, which had kept him literally, pinned down in his bed.

At least now, thank the lord, he'd started rehab. He was champing at the bit to start walking. He longed to escape the well-meaning concern. All the anxiety and endless fussing. His first session had been three days ago, and the last set of x-rays looked encouraging. If he was sensible and willing to work hard, then he knew he could recover from this. _Boy, was he willing to work hard._

He was so done with being confined.

"Damn."

He reached the edge of the mattress and perched there a trifle awkwardly. They'd told him he had to ring for a nurse each time he got out of bed. The call bell was just out of reach, of course, looped handily around the metal bed head. He paused for a couple of seconds and tried to decide what to do. _Rock forward, up onto his feet again, a second to recover his balance. _He leaned on the walker and took a deep breath before beginning the long shuffle around the bed.

"Hey, hey, what the hell are you doing?"

He heard the door open behind him. He turned, and for a heartbeat lost his balance, as he nearly fell flat on his face.

"You're not supposed to be out of bed by yourself."

It was Charlie and he sounded pretty pissed off. Don compressed his lips and didn't bother answering. He concentrated on regaining his stability, and continued on his way around the bed. The worse thing was trying to lift his feet. They scuffed along and refused to obey him. Even the most basic of motor commands seemed unattainable, an impossible achievement. _He liked to jog at least twice a week, 6k or more, time permitting. He loved the solitude and freedom of running. The satisfaction of pounding the streets._

It was probably best not to think about that. Better to stick to the stale, old cliche. Twelve months, they'd told him, the best part of a year. _One day at a fucking time._ He could see Charlie out of the corner of his eye. Although silent, he was probably glowering. He could almost sense his brother's disapproval as he turned the walker forty-five degrees.

Ignore it, and focus on the task in hand.

No one said this was going to be easy.

He put in one last spurt of effort and reached the far side of the bed.

_Made it._

He sagged and stood there panting for air. All in all, he felt approximately ninety. His pulse was thundering and his breath came in short, hard gasps, but he was smiling, he couldn't help it. He waited until he felt secure enough and carefully untangled the call bell. He was in for a well-deserved scolding, but right now, he truly didn't care. Sure enough, the nurse clicked her tongue at him. Charlie helped, as they settled him down again. She smiled, and stashed the walker next to the door, along way out of his reach.

"Tired?"

She looked closely, face softening in sympathy, and Don knew she wasn't really all that cross with him. Maybe she'd noticed he was puffing and sweaty, still trying to deal with the pain.

"Wiped," he was forced to admit it.

"Serves you right," she fussed over him, as she covered his legs with a blanket. "I'll bring you a milky coffee and something to cancel the pain."

"Milky coffee?" Charlie forgot he was supposed to be pissed and looked up with sudden surprise. "Since when?"

Don shook his head at him, dryly. "Since I dropped thirty pounds."

"Two stone – you lost over two stone? Wait till dad hears about it. I mean, it's obvious you're a lot thinner, but this will turn him into a man on a mission."

"Don't tell him," Don was a little annoyed. "He's done enough – got enough to worry about. He'll start trying to fatten me up again, and the last thing I want is more fuss."

"But now you're starting rehab you're going to need all your strength."

"Leave it, Chuck, it's taken care of. I already spoke to the dietician."

"Yes, but . . ."

"For God's sake, leave it alone. I told you, it's all in hand."

Charlie scowled and sat without saying a word. The silence stretched on between them. Don leaned his head back against the pillow and tried hard not to fall asleep. He'd known it was going to be tiring, the physio had been pretty blunt with him, but the struggle for air and the thud of his heart-rate had still taken him by surprise. He was weak – no, it was more than that. He was damaged and frail and shaky. It was going to take months and a lot of dedication to make any real progress.

_One day at a fucking time._

He cracked an eye in his brother's direction. _Uh-oh, the signs didn't look good._ Charlie was drumming his fingers on his briefcase, his expression still preoccupied and frowning. To be perfectly blunt, he wasn't up to this now, and Don kind of hoped Charlie would leave.

The nurse came in with his coffee and a pot containing two Vicodin. She raised her eyebrows, and then placed them in front of him, as if daring him to try and disagree. He quirked her a smile of gratitude and swallowed them as meek as a lamb. They were bitter on his tongue, but he was glad of them. To be honest, his whole body was aching. There was nothing to be gained by false bravado, and they offered the relief from pain he craved.

"Now, get some rest," she winked, and mock-glared at him. "Don't make me rat you out to your dad."

"Bully."

He rolled his eyes at her, and joined in the banter, but he knew which side his bread was buttered. It helped to be on good terms with all the nurses, but he was way too smart to push his luck too far.

"Vicodin, huh?" Charlie spoke at last. "After pulling a crazy stunt like that, I'm not surprised you're in pain."

Don sighed, and took a sip of his coffee, grimacing slightly at the milky flavour. "Here's a newsflash for you, nothing happened, I'm perfectly all right, as you can see. As for the Vicodin, yeah, well, hardly surprising. I still need it from time to time."

"Don, they only just removed all the pins. It's four days since your last round of surgery. What if you'd gotten dizzy, or even worse, fallen over? You might have lain here, hurt and in pain on the floor, if I hadn't chanced to drop by."

"_Lucky me,"_ Don muttered, _sotto voce,_ and then louder; "yeah, but that didn't happen. Look, I appreciate the concern, I really do, but at least credit me with knowing my own body. The sooner I start using my muscles again, then the stronger and faster I start healing. I've been stuck on my back for the best part of ten weeks, and believe me, I'm pretty sick of it."

"They told you about being patient – ten weeks is nothing in the scheme of things. I know we haven't really talked about it, but for God's sake, Don, you almost died."

"Really?"

It was the Vicodin or maybe the bone-crushing fatigue, but he couldn't help being sarcastic. He didn't want to keep reliving the explosion when he was trying his best to be upbeat and positive. It was bad enough – _fucking tricky enough_ – as it was. He needed to focus his energy. The nightmarish time trapped in the void-space was the very last thing on his mind.

"Yeah, _really,"_ Charlie wouldn't leave it alone. "Do you have any idea what we went through?"

His voice faded and they stared at each other. The accusation hovered between them. Don shivered with presentiment or perhaps something else, as a strange feeling crawled up his spine. The previous ten weeks had been pretty weird when it came to discussing what had happened. At first, he'd been too sick and in pain to do anything but sleep and recover.

After a while, when he'd begun to feel better, he and Alan had talked in more detail. He'd been appalled and incredibly angry at first, to hear about the video camera. Alan's attitude was more pragmatic than that – once he knew Don was going to get well again. He'd known from the start, just how hard it would be, to confront the very worse of his demons.

_And yet, he'd done it. _

He'd sat there and stuck with it. Forced himself to suffer through the footage. Been prepared to hang in there, and stay with his son, right up until the devastating end. Don felt sad and completely humbled, he could hardly bear to contemplate it. He'd been dumbfounded with admiration, choked with love and total respect.

It had been a lot harder with Charlie. There were too many words left between them. In the beginning, it was simply easier, to let them pile up like dead leaves, unsaid. Weeks passed, and it became habit. A brittle façade they could hide behind. They were skating across a thin surface and the dark water lay underneath.

Charlie had refused to talk to him.

_His brother hadn't come to the phone. _

He was aware of what Charlie _had_ done, of course. How he'd fought to save the fabric of the tower block. It was, in no small way, thanks to his brother, the rescue teams had saved dozens of lives.

Don sighed, he realised Charlie had done it for him, or at least he'd been the driving priority. His brother was loyal and exceptionally big-hearted; he wouldn't have left any stone unturned. But for some reason, it didn't change things, though. It didn't make them any less difficult. There was still some sort of barrier between them. He wasn't sure if it would ever go away.

He said, "Look, Charlie, I understand. I'm sorry you and dad had to go though it. Wasn't exactly my choice, either, but believe me, I'm not totally insensitive."

_He was doing it again,_ he realised. _Being placatory, trying to be protective._

He was tired and the pills were working. He wished Charlie would leave him in peace.

"I'm sorry."

The two words startled him. They were not what he'd been expecting. He lent his head back against the pillow and tried to come to terms with his surprise. Charlie's face was lowered away from him, his eyes dark with pent up emotion. They'd played out this scene, or one just like it, way too many times before. In the past, it always reached one conclusion, and he was waiting for some kind of outburst. The usual grudges - or perhaps a combination. All accusations which contained a grain of truth.

_His job was dangerous. He took far too many risks. _

_He'd been taking his family for granted. _

But an apology - he thought about it carefully, aware of a tightness in his chest. The gesture was so unexpected; trust Charlie to floor him again. He wanted it - _wanted it so badly._ Yet part of him still stood at a distance. He didn't know if he was strong enough to go there right now. To risk being burned a second time. Perhaps he was being foolish - he didn't know anymore and he was tired. It was too much to hope things might change overnight, not on account of two little words.

Knowing Charlie, they could mean anything or probably nothing, on a sliding scale of one to ten.

"Sorry?" he decided to hazard it.

"I figured it was time I said it." Charlie was giving nothing away – in-fact, he looked almost impassive.

Don thought about the weeks since the Bonnie Parks case. In the scheme of things, it now seemed redundant. He realised it wasn't the case per se, but the ensuing can of worms it had spewed. They were still there, wriggling around in the dirt. All the bitterness left over from their childhood. The fact that Charlie did exactly what he wanted, with no regard to protocol or his authority.

He'd been reckless, and as a result of his actions, had placed lives in real jeopardy. And afterwards, he'd been almost resentful because Don had been justifiably mad. Sure, they'd patched things up superficially. He recalled the day they'd worked on the Koi pond. He'd decided to come right out in the open and ask Charlie if he was holding him back. He denied it, but Don couldn't help wondering. In spite of everything, the worry gnawed away at him. In the brief flash of one hasty moment, Charlie came close to losing his life.

And now, when he came to think of it, Charlie hadn't returned the favour. He'd never wondered if Don had to field any flak or enquired about his clash with the Director. In fact, aside from the odd comment about Bonnie Parks, they hadn't mentioned the case ever again.

"Sorry for what?" He repeated.

"I don't know – for not understanding. For leaving things and letting them fester."

Don gave a caustic laugh. "You know, I don't think they festered too much. As I recall, you made it pretty clear."

"It was wrong . . . I was wrong to be annoyed. I guess I thought you were being too controlling. It made me feel like we were children again. I didn't really enjoy those years."

"_Too controlling?"_

The words sat heavily. He was suddenly crushed under the weight of them. He felt empty and devoid of all sensation; depressed and hollowed out inside. There was a darkness on the edge of his vision. For a moment, he was back in the void space. Perhaps this was all an illusion and he was still buried under the beam.

Was that how Charlie saw him – was that really how he was?

It hurt more than he would have imagined.

_And lately – over the course of the last ten weeks – he could imagine quite a lot. _

He didn't know what to say, so he was silent. Somewhere he could hear a clock ticking. It turned all the moments and memories into a fucked up disarray inside his head.

"You know, when we were kids you were bossy." Charlie continued to speak, "and now you're used to handing out orders. I suppose I should have expected that when I first started working for your team."

_For your team – not 'on' your team. _

He was too heartsick to argue semantics.

He watched as Charlie carried on talking. It felt like he was observing a stranger. He could hear, but scarcely recognise the long stream of words, coming out of his brother's mouth.

"I know at first, you were reluctant to have me on board, but that changed when you saw what I could do. It felt good to work alongside my brother, and to know I was helping save lives. You know, I put a lot of my own work on hold, and gave up time I didn't really have."

"You should have said if it was getting too much for you."

"It isn't – that's not what I'm saying. Don't get me wrong, I like doing it. I never thought of it as an encumbrance."

"Then what . . . _just what the hell are you saying?_ I never asked you – never forced you to work for me. I thought you did it for all the right reasons, hell, I was proud to have you _on_ my team."

"But I'm not on your team. Not really. I get paid as an independent consultant. No one _makes _me work for the FBI - I can come and go as I please."

"So you're saying I shouldn't make demands on you – that I have no right to get pissed at you? Not even when you nearly fuck up a case and place your own life on the line? Is that what you're saying, Charlie, I think you should explain it to me. Better lay it out in nice simple terms because I'm finding it hard to understand."

He was shouting – he couldn't help it. _Perhaps he was being controlling_. But right now, he was confused and hurting. There was nothing to ease _this_ type of pain.

"You're angry. I shouldn't have upset you, I don't know what I was thinking. I ought to go and let you get some rest now. I'm sorry, this clearly isn't the right time."

"Don't you dare leave," Don stretched out a hand. "You can't start this and then walk away."

Charlie hovered, visibly poised for flight. He looked out of sorts and undecided. He came to what was obviously, a reluctant decision, and then perched forward on the edge of the chair.

"I was mad as hell, I admit it. I thought you had no right to dictate to me. I was doing – I _always _try my best for you – and often, at the expense of my own work. There are times when you don't seem to appreciate that. I guess I think you take me for granted."

"For granted?"

Don gave a hollow laugh. His head was swimming with the effects of the codeine. He felt tongue-tied and stupidly lost for words. Either that, or simply numb with pain. For once, it was not of the physical kind, although the effects felt amazingly similar. He was tempted to put an end to this, right here and now. To close his eyes, and hopefully, slip away.

_Was Charlie the genius really so dense?_

All the anxiety, and all the sleepless nights, when he'd agonised about working with Charlie.

_Was he wrong, was he being selfish – in the end, had he made the right choice?_

The job was tough and their work was hazardous. Inevitably, it placed Charlie in danger. There'd been the odd occasion during the last few years when his worries had cut close to the bone. His fear for his brother's safety had driven him to near distraction. How could he ever look Alan in the eye again, if God forbid, something went pear-shaped?

More to the point, how could he live with himself?

He'd agonised over the question.

Enter the Bonnie Parks case, and Charlie had nearly died.

Maybe he _was_ bossy - _it was a horrible word_ – but he'd been trying to look out for his brother. Either that, or he'd been on a tough schedule when other lives were at stake.

So all right, he openly acknowledged it. When he was working a case, he was driven. He knew he could be edgy and impatient, and so did the rest of his team. He was usually described as focused, hard-hitting but dedicated. He liked honesty and personal integrity; he did his best to be scrupulously fair.

This was why he tried to see it from another point of view. Tried to look at it from Charlie's angle. Maybe the sibling thing made it too difficult for them to work together on the same team.

Charlie had always been one of a kind.

Unique all his life – _a freaking genius._

He was used to being cosseted and given free rein, to do virtually, anything he liked. Except by him – _except by his big brother._ Don recalled it hadn't always been easy. There had been days – _and_ _not all that scarce on the ground_ - when Charlie was a pain in the ass. Over the years, there had been plenty of difficult times, and so many causes of aggravation. There was five years and a whole world between them. _The two of them didn't always get along._

He'd battled bullies for Charlie, and battled himself, tossed and torn between love and resentment. It was especially hard in High School; he never could abide the thugs. They'd zeroed in on poor Charlie, like great birds of prey, and he'd gone on to suffer agonies at their hands. Don had fought and scrapped and intervened. He'd done his best to take care of his brother. He'd always had a robust grasp of justice – a strong sense of right and wrong. Most of the time, Charlie lived in a bubble, slightly separate from the outside world. And occasionally, he – _Don _- lost his temper with that; found it tricky to understand. Hell, he wasn't – _never had been a saint_. He accepted he was easily frustrated. But sometimes, being a protective elder brother involved using a little tough love.

He raked a hand through his unruly hair. It was getting curly, he noticed distractedly. He ought to have someone organise a haircut, before it got too out of hand.

He said, wearily. "What do you want, Chuck, what do you want from me?"

"I don't know." Charlie sounded miserable. "I think, perhaps some sort of parity. To know you regard me as an equal. As an adult who can run my own life."

"You're saying I don't?"

"Not all the time. You still treat me like I'm your little brother."

Don forced a laugh. "Well, aren't you?"

"Not if I'm doing work for your team."

"No - " Don forgot, and sat forward jerkily. The quick movement made him catch his breath. "What - you want your cake and eat it? That's not fair – you can't have it both ways. I think it's time you made up your mind. When you consult on my cases, then you're working for me. You do as much or as little as I tell you. You might not like it, but tough, it's a fact of life. You're there under my aegis."

Charlie snorted. "You sound just like dad, now. He said much the same thing."

"So, you discussed this with dad - " _that smarted,_ " - okay, so what else did he say?"

"He said I was your responsibility. That you'd feel accountable if something went wrong, for most of the reasons you just said."

"He's right . . . maybe you should listen to him." Don was fuzzy and feeling defeated. They were beating the life out of the same old dog, he was damned whichever way he looked at this. Charlie _had_ to . . . he needed to understand. _One day, his life might depend on it._ "If you're on the team, then you play by team rules. You might not like it, but there can only be one leader. It's a twofold responsibility, _it has to be._ To yourself and the people you work with. And then, there's the general public – we owe them a duty of care."

"All my life, I've been a free thinker, I work best as an individual. I can contribute, and even make a real difference, but I've never been good at team sports."

"So, what, I should just give you free rein? Is that what you're saying, Charlie? You went off at a tangent on the Bonnie Parks case, and look how great that turned out."

"It was out of line, I accept that."

"Well, that's something. Too right_ you _were out of line. Perhaps you should have stuck to your brief."

He regretted the sentence immediately. Not the words, but the way he'd expressed them. Maybe the codeine had loosened his tongue, and made him bad-tempered and snappy. A familiar band tightened around his temples. _Great, now he was getting a headache._ He had enough on his plate at the moment. He couldn't think . . . _couldn't deal with this now._

"So all this – what _is _this, because I sure as hell don't know. Is it why you didn't come to the phone?"

_There they were, the words out in the open_.

They dropped down like a stone between them. They didn't sound any better when he said them out loud, than they had done, inside his head.

Charlie's face worked. "You really think that?"

_What the fuck_ - "I only know what it looked like. Charlie, I really needed to talk to you. I needed to make things right."

"I know." He sounded thoroughly miserable. "I should have come – should have spoken to you."

"But you didn't."

"No, I didn't, I did what I had to do. It was the only way I could function. I had to stay focused on the building, so they could get inside . . . could get to you."

"You did that - did a real good job. Dad told me it was all down to you. A few more minutes, and we would have drowned down there. I know you saved my life."

They were quiet again for a long while, and Don watched the sweep of the second-hand. At the same time, Charlie sat deep in thought, and refused to acknowledge his words. _What was it for_ - Don was damned if he knew. Talking hadn't eased the situation. If anything, things were even more awkward. He wondered what the hell he should do.

"Can we get through this?" he asked, eventually. He hated the oppressive silence. He was weak and he hurt and his head ached. He wouldn't cry, but he felt close to tears.

"I hope so," Charlie said, sadly.

"I think I understand it, buddy - the reason why you couldn't speak to me. It was tough on you, I know, and I'm sorry too. A different version of P v NP."

"Not the same, though."

"No. Not the same." Don knew it, then.

_He watched, as his brother left the room._

_**TBC**_


	20. Chapter 20

**_Benedictus_**

_In the tender compassion of our God _

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us, _

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet intothe way of peace._

_From the** Benedictus - Song of Zechariah - The Gospel of Luke**_

* * *

_**Part Twenty**_

There was no way on earth he would admit it, but boy, was he glad to be home. Moving carefully, with cautious precision, he leaned his crutches against the edge of the side table. He stood alone for the briefest of seconds and then reached back for the arms of the chair. Once he had his balance, he lowered himself down. It was bliss to sink into the recliner. This morning's rehab session had tired him out, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

"You know, you're moving about a lot more freely," Alan watched from the doorway with a critical eye. "I fancy you're becoming quite the expert. Today, it took us less than five minutes to get from the car to the house."

Don gave a rueful smile and shook his head. "Less than five minutes, huh, let's hope I'm not rushing things."

"Wiseguy."

Alan removed his jacket and threw his car keys down on the table. He paused for a moment, face softening, as he studied his elder son. This latest session had been particularly gruelling, and as usual, Don was taking no prisoners. He was pale and he looked exhausted. Insubstantial and still far too frail. There was no point in telling him that, though. He was determined and just as obstinate as ever. In Alan's vocal but entirely unheeded belief, he was pushing himself a great deal too hard. He shrugged his shoulders in silent resignation. Far be it for him to voice an opinion. In the scheme of things, he was only Don's father. _So after all, what the hell did he know?_

He knew this much. "You must be hungry by now; I'll go fix us some lunch. There's some salad and that five spice chicken. It's a nice day, we could eat in the yard."

"You know what, dad, I think I'll leave it. Can you save me some for later?" Don dug around in the cushions for the handset in order to recline the leather chair. " Maybe take a rain check until Charlie gets home. Right now, all I want is some sleep."

Alan paused. "Donnie, you heard what the physio said. You're underweight and you badly need the energy. You're working too hard and not eating enough. It's no wonder you're so tired all the time."

"I know, but it's not like I'm going to starve. Not with you here, always trying to feed me. My appetite hasn't really come back yet, but I'm doing the best I can."

"Then think of the bigger picture," he coaxed. "Come on, it's my famous five spice chicken. I promise not to give you your usual amount. Just a small plate – two legs and a thigh. And you know, bok choy salad is good for you. The leaves are full of vitamin C."

"Dad - " he thought it over, and then gave up the battle. It would be easier to concede in the long run. He could tell by the zealous gleam in dad's eye. There was no point trying to hold back the tide. "Okay, just a couple of pieces. Wouldn't want to miss my vitamin C."

"Good - it makes sense. You need to keep up your strength." Instead of going straight through to the kitchen, Alan lingered, and came to sit on the sofa. "It's hard son, I know. This whole thing - it's damned tough," he smiled at him, with gentle compassion. "I admit that I nag you from time to time, and that some days, it gets on your nerves."

"Wait . . ."

"No, I need to say this, so do your old man a favour and let him finish. I know you think you have to beat this. You've been fighting, driving yourself so hard. It's who you are, and how you cope." He paused and tilted his head to one side. "I might not always agree, but I respect that; Donnie, I respect your choices. I suppose what I'm really trying to say is, you don't have to do it alone. I'm here for you – we're _both_ here for you. If you'll let us be . . . me _and _Charlie."

Don swallowed. "Hey, you think I don't get that? Only too well, and I'm grateful. I guess I've become a little obsessed with getting back on my feet again. I'm sorry if you think I've been introvert - if it feels like I've been pushing you aside. I don't know how I'd manage without you both. It's the last thing I ever intended."

"I know, and on the whole, you've been pretty good." Alan smiled, and regarded him wryly. "In-fact, you've been positively angelic compared to other times I can recall."

"Excuse me?" Don's rare grin lit up his face.

_It gave Alan a sharp pang to see it._

"Positively angelic – did I just hear right? I think there's still some damage to my eardrums."

"Unfortunately, no. You heard me," he thought he hid his emotions very well.

"Now, wait a minute," Don was enjoying this. "You need to pass me a pen and paper. Either that, or a reliable witness so I can use this at some later date."

"Blackmail won't work in this house. I still have the baby pictures. Including some extremely graphic ones of a certain young man in the bath."

"God, no, not the baby pictures. I thought I destroyed all the embarrassing ones. Except for the one you gave to Aunt Irene, or the ones of Charlie, of course."

"Not all," Alan waggled his eyebrows. "You know, back then, you were so uninhibited. A kiddie pool, a water sprinkler, and you were naked at the drop of a hat."

"Okay, pax, I give in, you got me. Boy, I'd like to know where you've been hiding them."

Don threw his hands up in mock surrender. He knew when he'd been roundly defeated. The underlying thread was too important. _All prior lack of inhibitions aside._ Dad had been great. _No, skip that - he'd been more than great._ In fact, he'd been fucking terrific. He hadn't hovered around fretting and fussing, but Don always knew he was there.

"Very wise, Alan nodded, sagely. "It's good to see I raised a sensible son." They were quiet for a moment, and then he spoke again. "What I meant to say is, there's no hurry. You don't have to break any records to beat this. It's going to take time and patience. Your _own _time, you're not on a clock. If it hurts, well then tell us, and if you're tired why not sleep? All I want is for you to be well."

"I will be . . . I mean, I already am. Hey, you said it yourself."

"All those days when I thought we might lose you. They were unbearable, that goes without saying. If I close my eyes, I can picture you now - just lying there, so white and silent."

"Dad, please, don't put yourself through this. There's no need – I'll be okay."

"So silent," Alan continued, his face lined with remembered pain. "My boy, never still for a moment, so fast-track, it's hard to keep up with him. Forever on the move – in a hurry - with one foot headed out of the door. Feels like you've always been one step ahead of me, Don. I've been chasing you all of my life."

"What you, chasing me?" Don's voice was choked. He tried to make light of the subject. "Nah – you've always been right alongside me. I always knew you'd be there to support me – to hold me up when I stumble and fall."

There were tears in his eyes, but he wasn't ashamed. He was past that – there was nothing to hide from. He'd had so much time since the explosion in which to consider his life. There was no way the bomb had been a blessing in disguise. He wasn't stupid – he wouldn't go that far. But perhaps, if he believed in karma, it was a lesson he'd needed to learn.

Life was out there and it wasn't always pretty. You played with fire and you got your fingers burned. But sometimes, the risks were worth taking, you seized the odds and came up trumps.

At the moment, he was focused on his physical strength. As a goal, it was almost overwhelming. His long-term objective was to get back into the field and to reach his old levels of fitness. Right now, it seemed like a distant dream. He knew it was going to be tough. But each day brought some form of new achievement. He just had to keep faith in himself.

After lunch, he usually went for a siesta. Then dad would help him up to the solarium. He would spend some time working with Charlie's old weights doing reverse curls and tricep extensions. After that, he would take a walk around the yard, and practise picking his feet up. It was easier now his ribs had mended. At least he didn't have to puff and pant for air.

After supper, he sat in the recliner and tried to concentrate on being sociable. By eight o'clock, he could hardly keep his eyes open. By nine o'clock, he was ready for bed. Either dad or Charlie would help him upstairs, but he would part ways from them on the landing. He could sort out his own ablutions now he could bend down as far as his feet. At present, it was back to just him and dad. At first, Charlie had taken some time off. A wise move, in the end, as things turned out. It took three of them to manage in the early days.

_Charlie._

Things still weren't easy.

They'd never finished their little discussion.

As though they'd both made a separate decision, it was better to let sleeping dogs lie.

And maybe it was. Don was still unsure. He'd thought long and hard about the question. That day, when they'd rowed back in the hospital – both their timing had really sucked. Since then, they'd settled into a pattern of sorts, kind of like North and South Korea. It was better than nothing, an uneasy truce, with dad as the demarcation zone.

This brought him back neatly to the subject in hand. He was indebted and supremely grateful. He tried his best to show it in so many small ways. He only hoped dad knew how much.

"It does me good to hear you say that, my son." Alan's voice was suspiciously shaky. "In the past, there were times when I wondered. When it seemed like you couldn't wait to get away."

"There _were_ times." There was no point lying. "Hey, I was young and dumb, I admit it. I had important things I needed to prove to myself, but in the end, I always came home."

"I'm glad."

"Yeah, me too."

_And he really was. _

He was kind of surprised to hear himself say it.

"Bok choy," Alan cleared his throat, hastily. He wiped his eyes and got to his feet, "That salad won't chop or dress itself, and I have to heat up the chicken. It's going to take twenty minutes or so. Why don't you grab forty winks?"

"I might do that."

They were back to the mundane immediately. Both of them felt far more comfortable. Don smiled, and pressed his thumb on the control pad as the chair back slid smoothly down. He relaxed, and let his limbs grow heavier. At this rate he'd be asleep within minutes. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he realised he wasn't in pain.

It was a highly agreeable thought.

A gleam of light at the end of the tunnel.

He heard an SUV engine pull up outside the house and then the slam of a heavy car door. Footsteps and a quick ring on the doorbell. They had a visitor, he wondered who. Don sighed – so much for his forty winks – looked like there was no peace for the wicked.

"Just in time for some lunch," Alan let Megan in, and gestured down at his '_Don't Shoot the Cook,'_ apron. "Don't mind me; I'll head back to the kitchen, and let you two talk shop. We're eating outside in the yard today, I'll give you a shout when it's ready."

"What's up?" Don saw the look on her face. "You okay – Megan, tell me?"

She sighed, and her voice sounded edgy. "I've been asked to come and pre-warn you. The press have gotten hold of the story. There's an article about you and the baby. All the details, right down to your name."

"Can we stop it?"

"Too late. It's already rolling. Out today – evening edition. _FBI hero saves baby. _At least they don't have a picture."

"Goddamn it," Don cranked the chair upright. "How the hell – _who the hell_ _leaked it?"_

"I already spoke to Marissa Da Silva. She swears she hasn't spoken to a soul."

"You can scrap that idea, she was here yesterday. She brought Benedicta over to see me. I know she hasn't spoken to anyone. There's no way it was her."

"Maybe the hospital – someone on staff there. I've got Colby running some checks."

"Doubtful, not if your job's on the line. Most of the staff know I'm FBI and they're unlikely to breach confidentiality." He lowered his voice, and glanced across towards the kitchen door. "What's happening with the investigation – we have any more leads on the cell?"

"Apart from what we learned from inside the mosque, not a trace, they've been very smart. We know they probably had more than one target, but for now, they've gone underground."

"And the Washington guys – what's their names - Parker and Getz? Can't be easy - you doing okay? They took my statement back when I was in the hospital. How's it been working with them?"

Megan pulled a face. "Could be worse, I guess, after a shaky start. Parker's a terminal asshole, but I think we might be wearing them down some. Either that or they're finally gaining a little bit of west coast attitude. I swear one of them even removed his jacket today. They'll be making their own coffee next."

"I have faith in you," Don smiled, briefly. "Don't let them dish out any crap."

"This is a problem," she didn't pull any punches. "Parker wanted me to come and talk to you. The man might be a humourless jackass, but I have to agree on this score. The story is going to be huge, Don, the public will simply adore it. Big, tough G-Man saves defenceless, little baby. In-fact, they'll probably want you on Oprah. Trouble is, once the story breaks, it leaves you out in the open and too vulnerable. It could turn you into a legitimate target; there's a chance they might come after you again."

"Voice down," Don looked at the door once more. "Not a word of this to dad or Charlie. The last few months have been kind of hard on them. They've done enough, I don't want them worrying." He paused, and pinched the bridge of his nose. _So much for feeling all warm and fuzzy._ She was right – he might be in real danger. He needed to think about this. "Okay – so what do we do?"

"You won't like it."

He nodded with resignation. "Let me guess – some form of protective custody?"

"For a little while, until we catch them. Or at least until the whole thing blows over. We get you out to a place of safety and assign discreet surveillance protection to Alan and Charlie. You're still on indefinite medical leave so no one should ask too many questions."

_Until this whole thing blows over . . ._

Don frowned as he considered her words. The timing couldn't have been worse. He'd been on the verge of reclaiming his life, only to have it snatched away again. It wasn't so much about the personal risk. It was only a small part of the equation. There were wider implications to be considered, like any threat towards his family and friends.

"The Da Silva's?"

"The article doesn't mention them by name. It ends here, Don. They'll be safe, I promise."

_It was something - better than nothing._

He looked up. "I hate to say it, but I can't manage alone just yet. I'll still need rehab, and some sort of assistance. There's no deal unless they can assure me of that; unless I have the final say. _Fuck_ . . . this is temporary, right, until the heat dies down, and then I get to come home. God, this stinks."

She reached across, and gripped tight hold of his hand. "Yeah, it does, it really does, but like you said, definitely temporary. The medical side's all taken care of. I take it your passport's up to date?"

He gave her a look. "Very funny. Jesus, Megan, where are they sending me?"

She hesitated as if choosing her words carefully. "Don, I'm worried, and I'm not sure if I should mention it. There's far more to this than they're telling me. For some reason, you're very important to them, but they're sure as hell not saying why. There's one thing about the terror cell - they've linked it back to Saudi Arabia. There's a Mossad agent flying into LAX tonight to liaise with the Washington guys."

"What the hell's this got to do with my situation?"

"This agent, apparently you know him. His name's Zev Ben Arendt."

Don paled. "Ben Arendt – but that can only mean one thing. The Saudi link – they think it's Abdul Hameed." His face worked in sudden, twisted realisation. "Our own people leaked the story. Those bastards, they set me up."

"How so?"

"I worked with Ben Arendt once before. Several years ago, on secondment in Jerusalem. We were after this guy – the Israeli's call him the Locust – originally from a wealthy Saudi family. He sets up and funds a network of separate terror cells all over the world; mainly Europe, the Far East, and here in the States."

"Nice analogy," Megan rolled her eyes. "And like the insect, he leaves a trail of rape and destruction behind him. But what does this have to do with you?"

"Quite a lot, if they really think it's Hameed, I'm the only one that can positively ID him. Listen - " he raked his hand through his hair. "The one photo they have of this guy was taken way back in the sixties. Since then, he's had surgery in Switzerland. He's gone completely under the radar."

"So how did you come across him?"

Don sighed. "It was purely by chance. When I was doing that job in Israel I got into a spot of trouble. I was undercover, trying to set up a sting, and supposed to meet up with a courier. But something was wrong from the moment I met him, and I knew my story was blown. I bailed and used a prearranged signal so Mossad could haul my ass out of there. Ben Arendt got to me just in time – I would have ended up face-down in Beirut harbour."

"But if Hameed was the so-called courier, then he would have had more plastic surgery. Even if you got a clear look at his face, there's little likelihood you'd know him again?"

He gave her a grim smile. "He was injured in an Israeli air-strike on Gaza. There were rumours, but all unconfirmed. No amount of money or plastic surgery can grow back a severed hand. Sure, he'll have changed – it's a given. He can afford the world's best prosthetics. But Megan, I got a really clear look at him, scars and all – saw how he moves – heard the sound of his voice."

"Wait a minute," light dawned in her eyes. "So you think Washington leaked the story to the press. They made a deal with the Israeli's to get you involved after they linked Hameed to the bombing."

"Come on, Megan, what are the odds? Let me guess, I get to spend a free vacation, courtesy of Mossad, provided I can help them with Hameed."

"As a potential target?"

"Might as well be. He doesn't like to leave any loose ends."

She was silent as she considered his words. After a while, she looked at him and exhaled. "Apparently, Ben Arendt wants to talk to you – to strike up an old acquaintance. I'm sorry, Don, but they've been keeping me out of the loop. You were right first time, _this stinks."_

He wasn't tired anymore, that was something, he supposed. He felt restless and hyper-alert. In the space of a brief conversation, the whole tenor of his life had altered. He'd been contemplating his future for some time now; trying to decide in which direction life was taking him. A part of him had wanted to run for the hills in the wake of his break-up with Liz. Now reality had stepped in and intervened. The decision was out of his hands. He might have laughed at the irony if the situation wasn't so tense.

Out in the kitchen, he could hear Alan moving about, all the familiar sounds he normally took for granted. There was a clang as his father dropped a metal tray, and then muttered a curse under his breath. He looked around at the comfortable room, his eyes lingering on the well-worn furnishings. They'd been part of who he was for so long now, it was hard to believe it might change.

But change it did. Nothing stayed the same. However much you tried to preserve it. You moved forward, and you adapted. In short, you got on with your life.

_Telling them was going to be the hardest thing._

Explaining it to dad and Charlie.

His heart sank as he contemplated it.

He couldn't let them know where he was going.

"When?" he asked, already knowing the answer. It would be either late tonight or tomorrow. The shortest possible expanse of time between now and the story going to press.

"Tomorrow. They asked me to tell you . . . to give you time to say your goodbyes. An ambulance will take you to the airport. Parker and Getz will come along for the ride."

"How much can I let dad and Charlie know?"

_The ten million dollar question. _

She raised her head and he saw a flash of sympathy. The answer was there in her eyes. "Standard protocol, Don. They can't have any idea where you are. Washington wants tight security on this. It's not likely they'll be in any danger, but it's for their safety, as well as yours. You can leave messages through the usual channels. I'll make a point of seeing they get them."

He nodded, he'd been undercover before. It was as much or as little as he'd expected. The absurdity of the whole thing struck him then. He wondered what the hell they were expecting. He was still fragile and physically debilitated with all the strength and pace of a snail.

"What's so funny?" Megan quirked an eyebrow at him.

He gestured towards the crutches. "They want me, then they're gonna have to pay for me. You can bet your life I don't come cheap. I want guaranteed top-quality rehab and gold standard medical care."

"Don . . ." her voice broke then and she couldn't go on.

"It's okay," he reached forward and gave her a hug. She came into his arms gladly. The movement hurt him and put strain on his pelvis, but right now, _what the fuck,_ he didn't care. "Hey, didn't you once tell me I had to hang tough? Well, I did, and look where it got me. Now it's my turn to do the Rambo thing - Megan, I really need you to be strong. Promise you'll hold it together. Not just for me, but for Alan and Charlie."

"Hang tough?" she swallowed, and laughed through her tears. "Dear God, did I _really _say that?"

"You really did," he was quiet for a moment. "And a lot more besides, I can remember. If it hadn't been for you on the end of the line, I don't think I would have made it that day."

She put up her hand to the side of his face. "You scared me to death, so don't do it again. I don't think my nervous system can stand it. Consider it payback for Crystal Hoyle – you hauled my ass out of the fire."

"It's what we do for each other. Hey, you know, we're part of the same team."

_Could he do this?_

He was going to miss so much.

_Keep telling yourself it's only temporary_.

He would have plenty of time and thinking space, to clear his head and plan the rest of his life. So in a way, it might be a blessing in disguise. It blew his other worries out of the water. His job frustration, his abortive love life – they were nothing in comparison with this.

For the first time in months, he might insist on a beer. He'd had no alcohol since the night before the bombing. The rest of him might have been shattered, but his liver must be jumping for joy.

"I'd better go," Megan pulled away from him.

"No," he shook his head. "Please stay, I really want you to. And it's too late now, dad's expecting you. There's something . . . another thing I need to tell you. Something else which nearly happened on that day."

He knew it was time to own up to the truth. To confess how near he'd skated to the edge. He owed it to her – _to all of them._ However ugly or pathetic it sounded. In his own words, he was part of a team, and he'd come so close to letting them down.

He told her then, carefully and quietly.

All of it, not sparing any detail.

He didn't notice Alan weeping in the doorway, until he'd finished, and it was too late.

_**TBC**_


	21. Chapter 21

**_Benedictus_**

_In the tender compassion of our God _

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us, _

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet into the way of peace._

From the** _Benedictus - Song of Zechariah - The Gospel of Luke_**

* * *

**_Part Twenty-One_**

In the end, no one finished off the chicken, and there was no lunch under the trees.

The day exploded into jagged fragments as though it was made of glass.

Don closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose. The bright sun beat in through the windowpanes. The heat in the solarium stifled him, stole his air, and made it difficult to breathe. He leaned his head in his hands and tried not to think. He was supposed to be working on his upper body. The weights lay scattered in front of him, ignored and unused at his feet.

_What was the point?_

He raked his hands through his hair.

This time tomorrow, he would be gone.

He listened for the tread of Alan's footsteps, but the house was uncannily quiet. Only the sound of the birds in the yard and the odd creak of sun-stressed wood. He didn't know whether to be happy or dismayed. At least it gave him some time to regroup.

The world had come to a literal stop when he'd looked up and noticed Alan in the doorway. Dad had been crying, his shoulders shaking with grief. It was clear he'd overheard every word. _Well, not all, thank God,_ Don pinched the top of his nose. He could feel the first vague tightening of a headache. He would still have to deal with the thorniest hurdle, when in due course, Charlie got home.

Alan had turned, brushing off all attempts to talk. He'd walked out, leaving Don sat with Megan. But that had been more than three hours ago and he still wasn't answering his cell. Don sighed, assuming he had it on him, of course. Knowing dad, it wasn't a given.

He'd taken Megan's advice and left it alone. It wasn't as if he could go after him. Dad probably needed a little breathing space, some time to come to terms with what he'd heard.

If only it was that simple.

_Was there really any coming to terms with it_?

It lay before them, raw and accusing. Open and bloody, like some sort of canker. A part of him had hoped it would eventually heal. That it might vanish in a puff of magic smoke. There was no chance. Life wasn't that easy. His lips twisted in a bitter smile.

_He'd been sprinting along the corridor - determined to reach the sabotaged truck._

He'd been so brittle that day - so damned friable – locked inside a prison cage of his own making. He remembered the intransigent hopelessness. He'd been drowning, his head too fucked up. The murdered child, and his break up with Liz, the uneasy truce with Charlie – they'd all left him exhausted and floundering, grasping for handholds in a cold, dark space.

Had someone asked if he'd been trying to kill himself, he would have looked at them as though they were crazy.

_And yet there'd been a rational part of him which had fully expected to die._

It was strange the little tricks life played on you. Fate had a sick sense of humour. Someone must have had a real field day with him; a fucking, great cosmic laugh at his expense.

All his fears – all the emotions he'd been feeling - they'd turned into the worse kind of metaphor. He'd been cut off from the people he cared about and cast down into a living nightmare. The void space had become his own version of hell. It had been one with the pain and darkness. He'd been lost there, trapped under the weight of the world, with no hope of a rescue in sight.

There was nothing he didn't remember. He saw it all with a diamond-sharp clarity. The agony, the feel and scent of the baby, and his grim resolve to keep her alive. _She was everything._ A tiny scrap of hope. A clear ray of light down in the darkness. All the children he'd saved and those he'd failed to protect, over the long course of his career.

And by that same token, she'd saved him, too.

Hauled his soul back out of the shadows.

It was like he'd told Megan earlier. _He could beat this – he was going to be all right. _It was going to take a while, he wasn't stupid. It was up to him to seek professional help. Being so brutally honest wasn't easy, but telling her had been cathartic. The chief obstacle had been surmounted and already he felt a heck of a lot lighter. For the first time since he'd woken up in the hospital, he felt more at ease in his own skin. The new sense of freedom came as a huge relief - as though he'd stepped out of a cage.

She'd been candid, as he'd known she would be. It hadn't come as all that much of a shock. Despite his sessions with William Bradford, she'd still worried he hadn't been coping. He understood that – _he really did_ – and in a way, he was grateful she'd noticed. He closed his eyes again, and massaged his temples. The pain was spiky and more insistent. If he wasn't careful, it would flare into a full-blown migraine. He really ought to take a couple of pills.

But not yet.

It was too much effort.

_He really wished dad would come home._

He didn't do hearts and flowers, all that Hallmark crap. It wasn't easy talking about Benedicta. Trying to explain what she meant to him – how much he'd changed - what she'd come to represent. Back then, on the day of the explosion, the world had reduced to a microcosm. It polarised to the size of the void space, with only him and the baby inside.

It was simple.

A no-brainer, really.

He was faced with an obvious resolution.

No big decisions and no other real options. Just one, very straightforward, choice.

When this was over, and he could come home again, he was going to have to look at things differently. There was still some scar tissue which needed to heal before he returned to his life. In a way, he was caught between two sides of a cusp. At the pivotal point of some axis. The future was uncurling in front of him and the way ahead was shining and clear.

He looked down at his wristwatch. It was gone four o'clock. The direction of the sun had changed now. The solarium was almost unbearable and his headache was getting worse. He reached for the crutches and got to his feet. It was dark and cool on the landing. He made his way along to the bathroom; washed his face and took a couple of pills.

The house was still with a pressing silence. Don paused at the top of the staircase. Dust motes danced on the one stripe on sunshine which shone in from the panelled door. The veil shimmied and shifted for a moment, and all at once, it was as though he was a child again. The same old atmosphere, the same vibrations. God, the house even smelt the same.

In a little while, he would be leaving.

He told himself it was only temporary.

It wasn't like he was going forever – as though he'd never see it again.

He was no fool. His life had changed irrevocably. He was surrounded by shadows and danger. There was a world out there tainted with ugliness, and from now on, he'd signed up for the ride. He was part of a war – a covert war – that was clandestine and ceaselessly brutal. The enemy was ruthless and well-funded, single-minded in its pitiless quest.

His head was pounding, as he by-passed his bedroom door. He should have taken the pain pills earlier. With any luck, they'd kick in and start working soon, but he was wound up and too jazzed to sleep. There were gold flecks on the edge of his vision now. The tell-tale signs of an impending migraine. His stomach felt oily as it started to churn, and he was glad he'd missed out on eating lunch. He gripped tight hold of the bannister. The stairs looked steep and impossibly treacherous. He'd been told not to try and attempt them alone, but there was no one here to give him a hand. Alan had been gone for over three hours. It was about time the old man came home.

So, okay - he was smart, he could do this.

It just needed a little bit of logic.

Don turned around, and went slowly backwards, sliding the crutches alongside him. It reminded him of being a small child again, as he held on, and eased gently down.

_Made it._

He reached the bottom safely, and hauled himself up on the banisters. The movement was slow and jerky, and he bit his lip in frustration. Once again, it struck him how helpless he was. _Nope - better make that fucking useless._ Not good, if indeed he _was_ a target. He was more vulnerable now than he'd ever been, if Hameed should decide to come after him.

The evening edition would be out on the streets by now. Just in time for the homeward bound commuters. His story would be public property. Don knew it made him fair game.

_Not just him._

There was dad and Charlie.

The sooner he was out of here, the better.

He hitched the crutches up under his arms, and swung across to the living room windows. Sure enough – pretty much as he'd expected – there was a stationary car outside in the road.

Megan's doing.

He exhaled in relief. _Good girl, he knew he could count on her._ For now, it was a precautionary measure, but you never knew when things might change.

Another car turned into the driveway. It was Charlie's little, blue Prius. His brother was home earlier than usual, and it didn't take him long to work out why. Don sighed - dad was sat in the passenger seat – and he and Charlie were deep in discussion. He'd obviously made it as far as CalSci, somewhere along the line.

He watched with a rueful expression. Charlie was gesticulating wildly. They were probably deciding on the best type of strategy before they left the car and came inside. He realised then, how alike they both were, and how much he was going to miss them. Not withstanding, and in-spite of their differences, they were his family. _They were all he had left._

This would be his last night at home for a while.

He didn't want it filled with blame or recriminations.

In a way, dad had saved him the bother. He was glad Charlie now knew the truth. He didn't want this – was not in the mood for a fight. The thought of a scene exhausted him. He wanted food and a beer and his usual routine. To spend the night with his father and brother.

He stood at the window, too tense to sit. He was impatient to get this over and done with. It was about time they both got out of the car. Too much precious time was ticking by. The pain-spikes throbbed at his temples again. His head was splitting as a result of the tension. He swayed a little and almost lost his balance. On second thoughts, maybe he ought to sit down. He stumbled on his way to the chair.

"Damn it."

One of his crutches caught on the edge of the rug. It twisted, and slid out from under him. He dipped sideways, and fell in an ungainly sprawl, as dad and Charlie walked in through the front door.

"Don!" Charlie dropped down beside him. "My God, are you okay – what happened?"

"Slipped - " Don waited a beat, and then closed his eyes. He rode the hurt and strove to calm his tattered breathing. "I'll be okay, just give me a minute."

For once – _thank the lord_ – Charlie did as he was told. He placed an arm firmly around Don's shoulders. Don leant back against him in gratitude and waited for the pain to subside. Okay, so he'd been optimistic. It took rather longer than a minute. _Not now_ – _this was the last thing he needed_. He tried to roll forwards onto his knees.

"Easy," Alan knelt at his other side. He'd been waiting for Charlie's signal. There was some sort of silent communication going on between the two of them. "We'll get you up on three. One . . . two . . ."

Don bit back any words of chagrin, and pushed himself onto his feet.

He stood for a few seconds, breathing harshly. Alan and Charlie, holding on, either side of him. It hurt more than he could have imagined. He was traumatized and still far too frail. It shook him to realise how powerless he was. Even now, all these weeks after the bombing. Nonetheless, there were no more alternatives. _Don knew he still had to go._

They helped him across to the recliner, and he sat there, his head in his hands. He was aware of them moving around him, taking off jackets and then settling down. After a while, when his galloping heart-rate had stilled, he recognised he needed to do this. He pushed himself back very carefully, and then semi-reclined the chair.

"Thanks. Lost my balance, for a second, back there. I think the damned crutch got caught up in the rug."

Alan nodded. "It's my fault, I should have thought of that. I'll move it out of the way."

"Leave it," he was struck by the absurdity. It was yet another fucking, stupid metaphor. He'd been sweeping things under – _out of sight, out of mind_ - for too long not to apprehend the irony. "That rug's been here for more years than I have. It isn't exactly invisible. I'm not about to do it again."

A brief hiatus, and he studied their faces – both of them taut with anxiety. It was almost as though they were frightened, either of him or the situation. _Dear God, he was the cause of yet more distress._ He hated it – they didn't deserve it. He wondered how much or how little, dad had revealed to Charlie.

He sighed, might as well get it over with.

_On his terms, rather than theirs._

"What I said to Megan earlier - I'm sorry you had to hear that," he looked directly over at Alan. "After everything you've done for me lately, hurting you was the last thing I wanted."

"You're sorry - " Alan answered him, slowly, as if pondering the words. "A part of me knew you would say that. But, you know what, _I'm_ not sorry, Donnie. I'm really not sorry at all."

He was bereft of words for a second or two. _Good tactic, dad never ceased to amaze him._ Depending on which way the wind blew, this would be harder or much easier than he'd thought.

He gave a small smile of resignation. "I suppose you want explanations – for me to make a list of all the reasons. But don't ask me to try and post mortem the past - I'm no good at this sort of thing."

"Don't," said Charlie, sharply. "Not exactly the best choice of words."

Don shrugged, with tacit acceptance. "A little clumsy, under the circumstances. I'm guessing dad told you the gist of it all – otherwise you wouldn't be here?"

"Hardly anything," Charlie was still scowling. "But enough to hand over my lesson – enough to assume it was something important, once I saw how upset he was."

There was a few second's uncomfortable silence, and then Alan spoke up again. "Don, you and Megan were talking in private. The conversation was confidential. I overheard because I was eavesdropping, and for once, I'm not ashamed of myself. If I'd listened in, and then gone running to Charlie, it would abuse anything we ever stood for. I know, sometimes, you think I interfere far too much, but I would never do that to you. I was upset and so I got in a taxi. It wound up taking me to CalSci. Charlie knows we need to talk as a family, but the rest has to be up to you."

Okay, so now he was aware of the facts. He could map out a plan of action. He was relieved and slightly embarrassed; he should have known dad wouldn't betray him. When he'd mentioned he was no good at this sort of thing, he really hadn't been kidding. He'd rather lead a raid on a heavily armed gang, or face a crack addict crazed off his head.

Right now, the ball was in his court.

He needed to choose his game carefully.

It was up to him how he played it, just how much or how little he said.

He knew he owed them a truth of kinds. A gentler version of how he'd been feeling. In retrospect, he didn't want to go there, to re-open the old wounds again. Maybe later, when it didn't hurt quite so much. He'd changed – or the past months had changed him. It felt as though this was a second chance. He'd been salvaged, pulled out of the wreckage.

He'd left the darkness behind in the void space.

It was over; buried and dead.

"Before the day of the bombing, I was in a black place. I guess I felt like my life was spiralling. Back at the time, there was a mess of reasons - I don't want to get into them now. There was Liz and the whole, damned break-up thing, and then I failed . . . and then I lost a little girl. It was a tough one, in-fact, it was more than tough. A pervert, a really bad case. Look - " Don paused, and spread his hands. "I don't want to make any excuses. I was drinking too much, feeling sorry for myself . . . it's probably better to leave it alone. But I'm all right, now, I actuallly am. What happened has changed my priorities. Saving the baby, being trapped in the void space, it was like a switch got flipped inside my head."

"And you didn't think you could speak to us?"

Alan was pissed, and Don supposed he deserved it. But on the other hand, he hadn't deliberately excluded them. In his own way, he'd been trying to protect them, and to allow them to get on with their lives. He glanced involuntarily over at Charlie. His little brother was the prime example. Charlie was growing in stature, and really feeling his feet, for the first time in a very long while.

_Damned if you do, and damned if you don't. _

The old adage fit like glove.

"It's my fault," Charlie spoke, quietly. "Don and I weren't exactly talking. We fell out – oh, not in so many words, but enough to make things awkward between us."

Don was honest. "No, buddy, it was both our faults. I should have done something about it. Life was frantic, I had a heavy caseload. I let things fester and go on too long."

"_You _might have tried to mend some fences back then," Charlie swallowed hard, "but I don't know if I was ready to listen. I'm sorry. I was arrogant and angry. I should have been there . . . should have seen you were hurting. I think maybe a part of me knew all along, but I was too busy feeling taken for granted."

Don realised then, there was no going backwards. Not in any way – his whole life had shifted. Things had altered between him and Charlie, and their relationship would never be the same. That day, back in the hospital, when he'd asked if they could get through this. He'd been naïve or perhaps too optimistic to ever hope they could step back in time. They'd both changed, moved forward, grown up some. Charlie no longer required a protector. He had to mentally sever the leading reins – to take a breath and let go of the past.

And the future? He didn't know what was in store for him. Right at this moment, it was nebulous and cloudy. He knew he had to reclaim his body, regain his strength, and become fit and well.

Maybe after all, this was kismet. Some time away from home was the solution. A little space to put things back in perspective, and allow_ all_ the old wounds to heal.

He loved dad and Charlie with all his heart, and right now, they meant more to him than ever. The next few months were going to be pretty hard on them - he felt sad and guilty for leaving. Ever since he'd returned from the hospital, they'd both been stellar and quietly supportive; given him room to come to terms with his injuries, and the help and encouragement he needed. The trouble was, they'd all been struggling with this, each one suffering for various reasons. A confused blend of guilt and culpability – a strange mixture of hurt feelings and self-blame.

Life was too damned short, _God, he know that now._ And as for this, they, _none of them_, needed it.

It was time to let in a draft of fresh air, and blow all the stale cobwebs away.

He looked across at them both. This wasn't going to be easy. He hadn't counted on such depth of feeling. "There's something . . . I should have said it before. You guys – well, you've been pretty excellent. I can't tell you how special this time has meant. To know you're here for me – how much you both care."

"Donnie," Alan looked troubled. "I have to say, if I didn't know better, I might think that sounded like a goodbye."

Don was silent. _Dear lord, how could he do this?_

This was one of the hardest things he'd done in his life.

"Look, please don't freak, just listen to me. There's something I have to tell you. The reason Megan came over earlier, it wasn't just a social call . . ."

He told them, then, quietly and evenly. At least as much as he could do. He stuck to the truth - a bare skeleton of facts, leaving out all of the salient points. Nothing about his life being in danger, or the chance he might be leaving the country. He used the newspaper story as a pivot point. _The publicity would make him vulnerable._ He left out the parts about Mossad, and most especially, Abdul Hameed.

What they didn't know couldn't hurt them, right?

_Bullshit – he knew it was bullshit. _

So why did he feel he was letting them down – that he was lying by omission again?

He stopped talking, and listened to the silence. It yawned like a crevice between them. He was waiting for some – for _any_ reaction. Now he understood the '_pin-drop'_ phrase. Lifting his head, he regarded them steadily, fighting for calm as he met their eyes.

"This stinks," it was Charlie who said it, the two words echoing Don's earlier sentiments to Megan. "You're doubtless repeating the official story, but please, don't treat us like idiots."

This time, Charlie's anger was righteous. It was heated and justifiable. After the uneasy cease-fire of the last few months, it came as a kind of relief.

Don spoke, softly, just the hint of a smile on his face. "Yeah, Charlie, it really does stink. I'm sorry I can't tell you the details, but I promise you, it's gonna be okay."

"Don't," his brother's resentment was palpable, and to be fair, Don didn't blame him. "After everything that's happened recently, how can you sit here and spin out that line? Take a good look at yourself, at your injuries. We nearly lost you - dad and I - you almost died. And now you're leaving again - off to God only knows where. Don't make promises you can't keep."

_Charlie was right._

It took Don a second to face up to the truth, to apprehend he was doing it again. It came as naturally to him as breathing. Trying to save them from the harsh realities – to shield them both from the worse of the pain. They didn't merit this . . . didn't deserve it. But right now, his hands were tied. He'd told them as much as they needed to know. There was nothing more he could do.

"Okay." It was time to be honest. "I'm not trying to insult your intelligence. There's some threat involved in what I'm doing, but I can't tell you what it is, or where I'm going. Please listen, you have to believe me, it would be more dangerous if I stayed."

"For whom?" Alan said, speaking up at last. His face was pale and sharp with hollows. "For all of us, is that what you're saying?"

Don sighed, God, he really hated this. His headache was back with a vengeance. A vein pulsed at the side of his forehead. He ignored the quick jab of pain. "It's unlikely, but yeah, there could be a risk. Look, when I go, that risk becomes negligible. Megan's got all those bases covered. It's only me they're after."

"Who'll look after you – you're hardly fit enough. You need rehab and a fulltime carer. Look what happened today when I left you alone – you ended up on the floor."

"I'll be okay. It's all taken care of. They've taken it into account."

"Oh, that's all right, then," Alan was sarcastic. "Of course,_ they_ know better than your father."

"Look dad . . ."

"You're in no condition to go anywhere now, but there's nothing I can do to stop you. If you say you have to go, then I believe you. I know you're damned good at your job - " he paused. "And unlike Charlie, I _do_ want promises, because you see, I have high expectations. You have to promise me you'll come back home to us. That you'll take every care you can."

Don hadn't realised how wired with tension he was. He felt his shoulders sag with relief. Once again, the old man had surprised him. In its own way, it was tantamount to a blessing.

"I promise."

Two little words and he meant them.

He was going to do the very best he could.

_**TBC**_


	22. Chapter 22

**_Benedictus_**

_In the tender compassion of our God _

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us, _

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet into the way of peace._

_From the** Benedictus - Song of Zechariah - The Gospel of Luke**_

* * *

_**Part Twenty Two**_

The following morning, he was up before sunrise. He hadn't slept much, in-spite of the migraine. He'd tossed and turned, and worried about his family, unable to find much comfort in his bed. The night had been severed into two distinct halves, a dichotomy of fretful sleep and broken dreams. In the end, he gave up the struggle and made his way across to the window. Other than the lone car parked opposite, the street below was deserted and quiet.

He'd showered, then; washed his hair and shaved. The process was still long and laborious. It took balance and a lot of dexterity to ensure he didn't waver and slip. He examined himself critically in the mirror. His face was thinner – virtually the face of a stranger. Fine-honed and almost painfully angular, gaunt with shadows and raw-boned planes. _There was no escaping the truth of it. _The last few months had taken their toll on him. His eyes were dark and guarded. He had the look of a man who'd known pain.

He ran some gel through his razor-short hair, taming the thickness into some kind of order. To his relief, he'd managed to get it cut at long last. He felt more in control once again.

When he got back to his bedroom, the sun had come up. There was a mug of hot coffee on his nightstand. His throat tightened as he sipped at it gratefully, and heard dad moving around downstairs. In the scheme of things, it was such a small gesture. One he usually took too much for granted. It was this sort of thing he was going to miss during his enforced time away.

He drank the rest of the coffee by the window. The sky was brightening and already streaked with gold. The temperature had notched up a few more degrees. It was going to be a hot day in the valley. The ground still shone with a faint mist of dew and was redolent with the scent of wet earth - the drifting fragrance of the orange tree, and the riot of flowers growing in the garden. Don inhaled slowly, and closed his eyes, trying to imprint the olfactory memory. It spoke of his childhood, of this house and of home. It was an indelible part of his life here.

There were orange trees in the hills around Jerusalem. The air had been thick with their perfume. Citrus fruits, spices and heat and dust. An intense and pervasive smell of resolve. He remembered what Ben Arendt had said to him once, as they looked out, across the Holy City. They'd been drinking red wine and talking politics, at the start of his last evening there. '_Every year they survived was a miracle.'_ He'd understood, then, been caught up in the fervour. Each new day had a special significance, in that battle-scarred and beleaguered country.

Like most Jews, he'd known a sharp tug in his heart. The land was soaked with their blood and history. An awakening of passion, and a strong determination, to defend his people's right to a safe home. In another time, he might have answered the call, but _his _home was here, in America. And he was leaving for an indefinite period. He didn't know when he would see it again.

In the end, he guessed the old sentiment was true.

_Home truly is where the heart is. _

It didn't take long to pack up his stuff. It would be easy to buy more where he was going. He wished he'd had time to stock up on some books, but in the end, he threw in some old favourites. With any luck they would change flights at Heathrow. He might have a gap to browse the bookstores - or _bookshops,_ as the British said.

_If they let him,_ depending on the risks, of course. He didn't know if he was really in danger. The whole thing might be a case of smoke and mirrors, if Hameed didn't consider him a threat. He closed his duffel and sat on the bed. His instincts were telling him otherwise. There was something uncurling inside him, dark and aware, like a thread of sixth sense.

Men like Hameed didn't leave any loose endings. They were practical and ruthlessly efficient. No eye-witnesses, no potential weaknesses - it was how they were able to operate. By now, Don was betting they'd found out all about him, including his past exploits in Israel. If it was so, then Hameed knew he'd seen him that day, and that Don was a potential menace.

For a second, his fists clenched in anger. He'd been set up, placed in the zone by his own government. He'd unwittingly handed them his head on a plate and tumbled into their laps like a ripe peach. Metaphors - he was mixing his metaphors, but there was no other way to describe it. His head was fuzzy from a surfeit of pain pills and a desperate lack of sleep. He didn't really blame Ben Arendt for any of this. The man would sell his soul for his country. Even though, in the end, he and Don had been friends, that was secondary to capturing Hameed.

The ring of his cell phone startled him. It was still before six in the morning. He stared at the display screen for a second or two. He didn't recognise the caller ID.

"Who's this?"

He kept his voice down low. That old gut feeling thing was back with a vengeance. He was pretty sure Charlie was still fast asleep, but there was a chance dad might have heard the ring tone.

"_Shalom,_ Don."

He recognised the voice at once. "Ben Arendt, you fucking bastard."

Ben Arendt chuckled. "Nice to talk to you, too."

"What did you expect, roses?"

"Ah, roses – how did you know I was fond of them? I'm told your father grows them in his garden. It must be particularly beautiful at certain times of the year. But please - don't hold back on the insults, I figure you're a little entitled. It's all right, we can talk quite freely. This is a secure line."

He cut the crap. "Tell me what's happening – do I need to start watching my back?"

"My sources say our mutual friend left Riyadh and flew into Zurich last night, so if I were you, I might start looking over my shoulder. We both know they won't try anything yet, but I think we've stirred up a hornets nest."

Don straightened, his shoulder-blades twitching, he was tempted to do just that. The absurdity almost made him smile. _Almost._ "Then you need to pull me out right now. I won't have my family placed at risk."

"They won't be. It's you he wants. He's been after your identity for a long time now. The LA bombing acted as a catalyst, and your government decided to oblige him. They've realised they don't want him running around loose, any more then we do, here in Israel. He's scored a major success, but he's vulnerable. He could be exposed and he knows it. You, my friend, are a trail of breadcrumbs. With any luck, you'll lead him into the wood."

"A trail of breadcrumbs, huh? More like a rat in a trap. I'll just bet this was your idea."

"Let's just say, it might have crossed my mind, once I heard you were the hero of the bombing." Ben Arendt's humour was sardonic. "But I was sorry to hear you'd been injured, old friend. You have a knack for getting into trouble. We had to wait until you were mobile, and back up on your feet again."

"Damn," Don's drawl was sarcastic, "it would have really messed things up if I'd died."

"That never entered into the equation. You're far too stubborn, too bloody-minded. No – I knew we could count on you – but for quite a while, it was close. It must have been hell for your family, you cut it a little too fine."

Ben Arendt sounded legitimately concerned, and for a moment, Don was touched by his tone. Then he grinned a little as he remembered, the man was a wily old fox.

"Hey, careful, you were nearly genuine there. Might have had me thinking you cared."

"It's good to hear you, Don, I've missed you," the other man laughed. "We'll have some fun working together again."

"Yeah, right, fun." Don sobered, suddenly, as he recalled what might be at stake. "You understand I can hardly walk by myself, let alone outrun an assassin. So okay, I'm up on my feet again, but mobile isn't really the word."

"The best doctors and the best rehab clinic, overlooking the greatest view in the world. Top facilities, the prettiest nurses - I promise we'll take very good care of you. Don't worry, it's already been sorted. All _you_ have to do is get well again. You'll have time to enjoy the scenary, sit back, and wait for them to come for you."

"Very comforting. I suppose your boys will be there - wouldn't want to waste all those facilities?"

"Oh yes," Ben Arendt's voice was grim. "You can be very sure we'll be waiting."

"So I guess I'll be seeing you later?"

"First class, all the way to London. We'll stop off to do a little business _en route, _and spend a couple of days in England_. _There's an old friend of mine at MI5, who I hope has some good news for me."

"Another old friend," Don said, dryly. "Must be nice to be so popular."

A pause, and then Ben Arendt spoke again. The jocular attitude had vanished. Don was reminded why this man so dangerous, when he heard what he had to say next.

"You were there, the day of the bombing. You know, so I don't have to tell you. Understand why we had to do this, Don, why we have to stop it happening again. We'll get him – I have total faith in God. We'll get Hameed, but there will be others. This won't stop with a single victory, but it _will_ count towards the greater good. Who knows – one of the lives we save – they might grow up to be like your brother. The brain behind some wondrous innovation which might help our poor, troubled world."

Don nodded, as he cut the call. Ben Arendt was right and he knew it. The whole thing stank, but he understood perfectly. He had no option other than to go.

He sat for a time until the sky was clear. The morning sharp with pale sunlight. He was safe a while longer up here in his room, although the feeling was illusionary, a chimera. The die had been cast and Hameed was on the move. Even now, there might be someone watching him. He wondered about phone and internet lines. He guessed they'd already been tapped. Ben Arendt had made a point about his cell being secure, but Don knew there was no use packing it. They would issue a new phone, a different number, when they got him away from the house.

He was sure now he was going to Israel. Ben Arendt had all but admitted it. The description had been a dead giveaway – _'the greatest view in the world.'_ Jerusalem, then, it had to be. Perhaps somewhere on the Mount of Olives. He felt a quick thrill of excitement. In-spite of the expedient state of affairs, it would be good to see the city again. If they were planning to use him as bait, then he might as well make the most of it. Mossad had another thing coming if they thought he was a lamb to the slaughter.

From now on, this was going to be on his terms. He wanted in on the operation. He would use blackmail if strictly necessary; he was the only lead they had to Hameed.

"Don?"

A tap at the door and it was Charlie. His hair stood up in ten different directions. He yawned and scratched at his belly as he came and sat down in the chair. He looked at Don already dressed and shaved – the duffel zipped up and waiting on the bed. "I see you didn't waste any time."

"Couldn't sleep, so I gave up trying. Figured I might as well sort out my stuff."

Charlie nodded. "One bag, huh, glad to see it. Doesn't look like you're packing for a long trip."

"Good try, Chuck," Don smiled at the fishing attempt. "You know I can't say where I'm going. Aside from breaking with protocol, I'm not even positive myself."

Charlie kept things light in return. "Hey, can't blame a guy for trying."

"You know I'll send messages through Megan, but I can't promise when or how often. With any luck, the fuss will die down pretty quickly, and I'll be able to get home soon."

"Yeah, right." Charlie was sceptical. "Back from wherever you're going."

"Do me a favour and stay strong for dad. You know how he gets about this kind of thing. Any problems, then you call Megan. I mean it, Charlie, she'll be expecting to hear from you. It's gonna make this a whole lot easier, if I know you guys are okay."

"What about you?" Charlie's voice was soft. "How does this work in reverse? And don't pretend it's the newspaper story. I can tell there's something else going on. I don't know what the heck you're involved with, or why, suddenly, your life is in danger. If you weren't still recovering from your injuries, I'd say you were on some sort of assignment."

There was silence as Don looked down at his fingernails. He knew there was nothing he could say. He might try and bluff his way out of it, but in the end, what was the point. Charlie was far too intelligent and he already had his suspicions. Anything he protested to the contrary would simply sound like what it was – a damned lie. In the end, he was screwed, whatever he said. It was easier to take refuge in silence.

He shrugged. "Better not go there, buddy. Trust me – it's gonna be okay."

"So you keep saying."

To his surprise, Charlie didn't argue for once. His brother seemed almost resigned. It occurred to him then, he'd expected it. Yet another source of conflict between them. His spirits sank at the implication. He was sick of this - did not want to go there. The thought disheartened and saddened him.

Maybe he'd been kidding himself.

_Was it really so bad between them?_

He had no desire to step back in time, to regress to how it was in the past. Both of them unsure of their relationship, walking on eggshells, not knowing the other. He'd loved his brother, sure, in an abstract way, without understanding too much about him. They'd lived in the same house together, without really having a clue. Don sighed, feeling suddenly defeated. He didn't want to leave things hanging this way.

"You okay?" Charlie got to his feet in concern. "This isn't . . . I didn't want to do this. To drag up all the old issues again, on the same day you have to go."

"Then don't." Don answered him, wearily. "What say we just call it a truce?"

Charlie didn't respond at once, and Don waited, his stomach churning. He hated the thought of more tension, especially today, of all days. He looked up and experienced a jolt of shock.

Was that . ._ . what the hell, was Charlie crying?_

He was dumbfounded, totally unsure what to do. For a moment, he felt useless and frozen. He'd become so used to having stand-offs with Charlie, that he was stunned by this turn of events. His brother had seemed so cocksure, of late. Strong-minded and mulishly determined. To see him now, head down and shaking . . . Don felt like he'd stepped back in time.

"Hey, buddy," he struggled up to his feet, and grasped hold of Charlie's shoulders. "Come on, now, there's no need to do this. You heard me, all of this, it'll turn out okay. I know it's tough, but we're gonna get through it."

Charlie stiffened, and then pulled away from him. They'd never gone in too much for hugging. A friendly punch, the odd, macho back-slap, maybe a teasing ruffle of curls.

"It isn't just the fact you're leaving. I can handle that, even though I hate it. It's us, Don, everything's shifting. I guess I don't want to lose what we have."

"People change," Don smiled a little sadly. "And you've been making up for lost time, lately. I think we have to look at things differently, we've both got some readjusting to do. You've got a good life now, Charlie, _a great life_, _in-fact._ Your own house, a terrific job and Amita. You don't need my approval for anything – you should be doing what _you_ want to do."

"It's perverse in a way," Charlie helped him sit back down. "Your approval, it was _all_ I wanted. I suppose I began to resent it, and the fact you were always the strong one. When we were kids, you always looked out for me, and then when I fell apart during mom's illness. Even now, I don't recall much of anything in the weeks which followed her death. It felt great when I could finally help you. When I started to work on your cases. For once, I was in the driving seat, and for the first time in my life, you needed me."

"Hey, I still do," Don thought he understood – or maybe he did, just a little. "There was never a price on it, Charlie. I'm your brother – it all came for free."

"Exactly, and that kinda makes it worse. Makes me realise how petty I've been."

Don laughed then, he couldn't help it. "You know what - it just makes you human. And I know I can be demanding – a real sonofabitch to work with. Some cases have to take priority, and there are times when I've been pretty tough on you." He waited a beat, and then continued; there were still some things which needed to be said. "Look, I'm sorry you have all these issues with me. I never meant to be overbearing. That's why some time apart will be good for us. It might help you figure out what you want."

"I know what I want," Charlie said, softly. "I want you safe, Don, I want my brother."

Don sighed, he felt conflicted and bittersweet. He draped an arm across Charlie's shoulders. He loved his brother, he'd never doubted it, but the compass point had shifted between them. The ache in his chest was familiar. It was grief, a deep sense of loss. He forced himself to examine it closely. _It was something to do with the damned phone call._ However much he tried to put it in context, the pain it caused was raw and unappeased. He'd listened to, and understood all the reasons – _but Charlie still hadn't come to the phone. _

He wasn't over it.

He hoped, one day, he would be.

He guessed it was going to take a while.

There was no point discussing it in triplicate now. There would be plenty of time, _he hoped,_ in the future. He bit back the words on the tip of his tongue, and pulled Charlie in a little closer.

"I'll always be here for you, buddy. For just as long as I possibly can."

* * *

The first time the phone rang, it was a little after seven. The editor of a local TV station. She asked Don for an exclusive appearance on the lunchtime news programme, that day. After that, it rang almost constantly, and in the end Alan unplugged it. He swore once at the empty socket, and then turned to where Don sat quietly in the chair.

"You know, yesterday, I wondered if they were over-reacting. Making a mountain out of a molehill. They're not, are they?"

"No," he said, evenly, "they're not."

Alan nodded. "That's really very discomforting – and you _really _are in great danger."

"I might be, if I stayed here. That's why I have to make this trip."

"Ah, yes, this mysterious trip. To a place where your family can't contact you."

"It's for the best, dad, and hopefully, it won't be for that long. Don't worry; they'll take good care of me." _They'd damned well better,_ he thought, sardonically.

Alan gave him the patented _'dad'_ look and muttered something rude under his breath.

The first news van turned up just after nine. The FBI arrived not long afterwards. By nine thirty, there were no more parking spaces. By ten, they'd blocked off the street. Don watched, concealed by the curtains. He was starting to feel very uneasy. Right now, amid all the confusion, it would be simple to slip someone inside. He'd made dad check the doors were locked, and had him close all the open windows. He took comfort from the sight of the black sedan still parked reassuringly outside.

He called Megan a little after ten thirty. "Might be a good idea to get me out of here. It's turning into some kind of crazy, media circus."

"Parker and Getz will be with you in an hour's time. You need to make sure you're ready. Colby and David will be along for the ride. They'll be posing as paramedics."

"An hour, huh?" It brought it home, then. Only an hour to say his goodbyes.

"I'm on my way now," her voice was soft. "I'll be with you in just over ten minutes. I'm bringing someone else with me – they want to see you one last time."

He swallowed back a rush of emotion. "Thought you might be trying to wriggle out of it. Fuck, Megan, this whole thing . . . it isn't easy. Be better if I could just get it over with."

"Not long, now." She sounded as though she agreed with him, her tone clipped and uncommonly tight. "Is everything okay at home?"

Don sighed. "As well as can be expected. You know how dad and Charlie can get, but I suppose it could be a lot worse. The hardest thing is not being honest – keeping stuff back, and not telling the truth."

"Hey, you know there's no option, right? It's for their safety as well as yours."

"I guess that's why I'm feeling so twitchy. I won't be happy until I'm away from here."

"We're going to miss you." She was light and professional. "Better make sure you hurry back to us."

He smiled down at his cell phone. For a brief moment, his vision went cloudy. He blinked, and allowed it to clear once more. He couldn't permit himself the luxury of crying. "Megan, about what I told you . . ."

She interrupted. "It's not the time, Don. I think you already know that. We'll talk about it when you come home again. Just clear your head, get well, and stay safe."

He cut the call, and moved back to the window, watching for her car in the driveway. He realised he was tense, and exhaled in relief, more than grateful for her discretion. As much as he was glad to have told her – to have bared his chest about his depression, it was one conversation he did not want to pick up in front of either Charlie or dad. Not now, when he had so little time left. When every second felt precious and dear to him. He felt a sudden desire to sit by the Koi pond. To spend his last hour out in the yard.

Alan helped him across to the patch of shade, and settled him into one of the garden chairs. For once, Don quietly accepted his aid, and even leaned on him more than was necessary. The pond was pretty special to all of them. It was a sanctuary, a place of solace. He remembered his mother had loved it out here, that last summer, before the cancer consumed her.

Perhaps, it was what drew him out here now. Not a ghost, but more a trace of her presence. If he squinted, he could almost see her, wrapped up and surrounded by flowers; a glinting smile for any visitor, and a pile of books at her side. In the past, she'd always been rosy and tanned, but the chemo had put paid to that. She'd been forced to sit under the shade of the trees, the dappled sunlight dancing on her skin.

"Your mother always loved it out here."

Dad must have read his mind.

"Yeah, she did." He felt his throat closing over - he didn't want - _couldn't talk about her now._ He reached across, and grasped hold of Alan's hand. "You know what, dad, I'm sorry for everything. All the trouble, all the worry I've created. The last thing I ever wanted was to cause you any upset or pain."

"Oh, my son, my dear son," Alan bent forward, and dropped a light kiss on his head. His voice was sad and slightly husky. "As a parent, I consider a little pain to be my right. One day, you'll know it comes with the territory. You can't protect me from the privilege of loving you – however hard you might try."

"I'm going to miss you," Don said, when at last, he could talk again. He was still recovering from the kiss. "I want – I _really_ hope you know it. Promise you won't sit here and worry about those things I told Megan, yesterday?"

A beat – then Alan looked at him shrewdly. "Do I need to?"

Don thought for a moment, and then shook his head.

"You don't," he said.

And he meant it.

_**TBC**_


	23. Chapter 23

**_Benedictus_**

_In the tender compassion of our God _

_the dawn from on high shall break upon us, _

_To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, _

_and to guide our feet into the way of peace._

_From the** Benedictus - Song of Zechariah - The Gospel of Luke**_

* * *

_**Part Twenty-Three**_

The koi swam in concentric circles, and in a way, he envied them a little. The Zen-like, unhurried existence – the safety and warmth of the pond. By now, he knew them all by their markings. _God, how many times had he studied them? _All the hours spent out here, with the sun on his back, simply chilling out and watching the water.

But not today – and he didn't expect it.

He was filed with a pent-up excitement.

A sense of danger and anticipation as he thought about what lay ahead.

Even now, he wasn't taking any chances. He patted the gun in his pocket. He'd cleaned and loaded it in preparation earlier, when the media circus first began. Not that anyone else knew, of course. He hadn't mentioned it to Alan or Charlie. He didn't want to create anymore upset, or be the cause of further alarm.

Don shivered, and hoped he wasn't being paranoid. He didn't think so, call it gut instinct. A sense of menace still hovered around him; an awareness he couldn't quite shake. The air thrummed with it – almost sentient - super-charged with electricity. It was out there, the danger, or whatever it was, and it posed a real threat to his family. Until they got him the hell out of Dodge, there was a lot more than just his own life at stake.

He sat up straighter when he heard their voices. Dad and Megan – there was someone else with them. Another sound, one he knew only too well. He still heard her cry out in his dreams. Don smiled, as they approached him over the lawn. _God, talk about bittersweet. _If they'd taken the trouble to ask him, then this would have been high on his wish-list. His own little, pint-sized miracle. It was Benedicta, of course.

Of all the people he wanted to say goodbye to . . .

His throat tightened with a band of emotion; _trust Megan to understand._

The baby struggled around as if sensing him, and strained backwards against Marissa. She was dressed like a shaft of sunlight, in a buttercup, yellow dress.

Since he'd woken up, they'd been regular visitors, and now they felt like part of the family. During all those weeks, when he'd been going crazy on bed rest, Marissa had brought her into the hospital. Back then, visitors had been a lifeline, but most especially this one, small lady. He knew the story of how she'd pulled him back from the brink – of how her voice had made him open his eyes.

"Hey, Sweetie - " _she would always be Sweetie to him._ He leaned forward, and held out his arms to her. "Come here, and give me a kiss."

Marissa placed her down on his lap, and his heart melted as she gurgled with delight. She was wearing a sun hat to match the dress, and she looked just like a flower fairy; her little, brown feet pushed against him, all softness and sweet-smelling skin.

"I swear it's almost as if she knows," Marissa shook her head in astonishment. "She's been bad tempered and cranky all morning, and now butter wouldn't melt in her mouth."

"What can I say, it's the mojo." Don pulled a face at the laughing baby.

"I had to come," Marissa was troubled. "Don, about the newspaper article. I didn't know until Megan told me last night, I swear to you, I haven't said a word."

"Hey, no – it's okay," he tried to put her mind at rest. "We found out who was responsible. It came from inside – an internal leak- but don't worry, they won't mention your names. Megan told you I'm going away for a while? When I'm away, she'll take good care of you. Any problems, _and I do mean any_, then you don't hesitate to contact her."

"I got a call," a soft smile curved around her face. "Dan's coming home any day now. I don't know how or why, his tour isn't over. He said something about special leave."

"That's great news," Don said, and he meant it.

He sent a mental note of gratitude to Megan. _They wanted him – then they had to pay for him. _From now on, they would play the game his way. _On_ _his terms, or no terms at all._ He'd put in a few, late demands of his own, and Dan Da Silva had been part of the equation. They'd dealt with his request pretty quickly. The tough approach had paid off, in the end.

Marissa gave him an old-fashioned look. "Don, why do I get the distinct impression, you know more about this than you're telling me?"

"Who me?" he held her gaze in all innocence, and shook his head in rebuttal.

"Yes, you," she clearly didn't believe him, and reached out to touch his arm fondly. "Megan said it might be a good idea if we took some time away as a family. We plan to visit Dan's parents in Rhode Island – catch up on some Portuguese cooking."

"Rhode Island, huh?" Don thought it over, and then offered up yet more thanks to Megan. The woman was a veritable genius. As for the Da Silva's, he was going to feel an awful lot happier when they were the width of a continent away. "I think you could really use a vacation. You've been through a tough time, lately. It sounds like a terrific idea."

She frowned. "I don't know, right now, it seems so unfair. All your courage, after everything you did for us. You've hardly begun to recover, and now they're forcing you to go away."

"It's okay," he placed a comforting hand over hers. "It makes sense, and it won't be for long."

The baby cooed, and patted his face. He grinned down at her, waggling his eyebrows. _Dear God, he was going to miss her. _He was staggered by his love for this child. He had no right to her – another man's daughter, no blood links or familial ties. Yet he knew, whenever he saw her, the bond between them was stronger than ever. She'd stolen a piece of his heart away, irrevocably and for good.

"She loves you," Marissa said, softly. "It's almost as if she knows you're her miracle."

"She was the miracle," Don shook his head. "A blessing, just like her name."

Marissa smiled. "Don, I want to ask you a big favour. Dan and I – we talked it over last night. We already had her christened several months ago, _God, I don't know how this works. _I realise your family is Jewish, but I was hoping you might be an extra god-parent. Is that the term . . . " she laughed, "I hope it's the term, or a guardian, if you prefer it?"

For a moment, he was too touched to even respond. Then his composure broke, and he almost lost it. Through all the pain and the hours of darkness, this little girl had been his guiding light. Amid the evil and despair of the bombing - she was a voice of hope, a human antithesis. Something pure and as yet unsullied by brutality, she'd helped restore his faith and tattered will to live.

"Is that okay with you?" Marissa was tenuous. "If Benedicta could talk, then I know she'd ask you - to become a permanent part of her life."

_Was that okay – how about wonderful?_

Don swallowed, and forced himself to answer. "Marissa, I don't quite know what to say. It's more than okay, I'd be honoured."

She smiled again. "It's settled then. You're officially her Uncle Don, as of now."

"Just wait 'till we tell _Great Uncle Alan_ – he's really gonna be stoked."

He held Sweetie out in front of him, and swung her as high as he could. She arched her back, shrieking with laughter, as her sun hat slipped down over one eye.

_Uncle Don, huh?_

Well, he could really get used to it. Sounded good - he felt a deep sense of happiness.

_Yeah, dad was gonna be stoked, all right, but not quite as stoked as him_.

"Whoa - " he raised an eyebrow at Marissa. "I think someone needs a visit to the bathroom. Must be all the excitement, young lady, here, back you go to your mom."

"Just you wait until you can carry her. It comes with the territory, _Uncle Don."_

Marissa shot him a fleeting grin, as she shouldered her _not so_ fragrant daughter. Don watched them leave, pulling faces at the baby, as they headed across the lawn to the house. _A god-parent or kind of guardian._ He guessed that it would probably be the latter. The Da Silva's were of Portugese origin, and most likely Roman Catholic's. As a Jew, he would be prohibited from accepting the former role. _No matter - he would be a damned, fine guardian._ He wasn't kidding when he said he'd felt honoured. From now on, he would always be a part of her life. He was not going to lose this little girl.

He glanced down at his wrist-watch - twenty minutes to go. The clock was ticking relentlessly. It felt like he'd come to the end of a book. Time to close the page and put it aside. More footsteps – he didn't have to raise his head. By now, they were achingly familiar. Charlie sat down on the edge of the pond, and turned his face to the sun, with a sigh.

"I wonder what it is about this place. Is it the fish, or because mom used to love it? Perhaps it's simply because you can sit down out here. Life doesn't always have to be about the profound."

Don's eyes crinkled up in amusement. It was such a Charlie-like statement to make. "I think maybe it's a mixture of all those things – a little peace and comfort rolled into one."

"Peace and comfort," Charlie echoed. "You might have hit the nail on the head."

They sat quietly for a minute.

"You okay?" Don said.

Charlie snorted. "Let's move on and define the word _okay_."

"Let's not," Don smiled slightly at the sarcasm. It kind of summed up how he was feeling.

"I meant it, though," Charlie spoke, quietly. "What I said about the profound. Because you see, in the end, it's quite simple. When you look past all the complications, we human beings are really, very straightforward. We eat, we sleep, we have sex and we brawl. We need warmth and a few basic comforts. We seek the company of those we like and care about – ultimately, we need to feel loved."

"Charlie, I see where you're taking this . . ."

"Do you?" Charlie stared at him without breaking contact, compassion and guilt in his eyes. "I let you down when I didn't come to the phone. You were hurt and afraid, and you needed me. I was too busy with the bigger picture – I let my own concerns get in the way. It's something I'll regret for the rest of my life, and I understand why you can't come to terms with it. What I'm trying . . . _I think I'm saying, I love you._ Please remember that while you're away."

Don lifted his head to answer, but something else caught his attention. He leaned forward, and looked past Charlie's shoulder, peering across to the garage intently.

There was a movement – a rustling of foliage – as he watched, the bamboo screen-fence swayed slightly. Don thrust himself awkwardly out of the chair and seized hold of Charlie's arm.

"Charlie, do as I say, and get back to the house. No – _wait_ – Charlie, get down. _Now!"_

The man appeared from behind the garage, a submachine gun strapped across his chest. Don launched himself at his brother, and wrestled them both onto the ground. The man swung his weapon up into the firing position and the first round scorched over their heads.

"Fuck," Don placed an elbow across Charlie's back, and pressed him further into the grass. They were part-sheltered by the edge of the Koi pond - it was a meagre form of cover for now. He uttered up a pithy, but heartfelt prayer, for his earlier bout of paranoia, and used the brief second of respite to steady the Glock in his hand.

"Don?" Charlie was petrified.

"Shut-up, do as I say, and stay down!"

A second round raked the stones beside them, and Don tucked his head in under, for a moment. Sliver-splinters spat in all directions, and a sharp pain stung the side of his face. He felt the sudden warmth of a trickle of blood, as one of them glanced off his cheek. Without hesitating, he rose to his knees and ignored the scream of protest from his pelvis. He fired three rounds in quick succession, and then threw himself forwards again.

"Charlie, get further behind the pond. Stay flat – crawl on your belly!"

He looked fearfully across towards the Craftsman. He prayed Megan would keep dad inside.

The shooter had ducked behind the orange tree. With any luck, he was flying solo. Don didn't rate their chances too highly if this was a two-pronged attack. So far, so good, if you could call it that. He took a breath and re-checked his gun. The man leaned out from the trunk of the tree and blazed off another round. Charlie huddled closer, in terror, as the bullets ripped into the lawn.

"It's okay, buddy, keep your head down!"

_Yeah, right, who was he kidding?_

Where the hell was the fucking cavalry – the FBI and his so-called protection?

They'd better throw their asses into serious gear, if they didn't show up soon, they would be dead.

Don watched the tree for any sign of activity, while his eyes scanned the rest of the yard. He was sick with dread and a terrible anger; _he had to stay calm for Charlie's sake._ It didn't get any worse than this. It was horrendous, his worse nightmare incarnate. He could cope – had expected them to come after him, but his family were out of bounds.

_He sensed it rather than saw it._

A movement, and the man came out firing.

"Down!" Don hissed at Charlie again. He tightened his grip on his gun.

He lurched sideways, and something shifted inside him. He couldn't afford to pay it any attention. He squeezed the trigger three times in sequence, and rolled clumsily, flinching in pain. A loud grunt, and his spirits lifted. He looked up, and saw the man doubled over. The shooter staggered backwards, grasping hold of his leg, and for a moment, the gun slid out of his hands.

"Stay there!" Don yelled back at Charlie. Someone else was shouting behind him. He didn't have time to glance over his shoulder, as he struggled to get to his feet.

_Too slow . . . he was too damned slow . . . dear God, he wasn't going to make it. _

One agonising burst of effort, and somehow, he was up off the ground.

This was it, then - _kill or be killed._ Their eyes sparked with a deadly recognition. The man swung his gun back into position, and Don realised the brief window was closing. _Now or never,_ he flung himself onwards, and aimed the Glock at the shooter's head. He was a damned good shot on the best of days, when he was shooting at paper targets. Today, he was an even better one. The first prize was his brother's life.

He pulled the trigger, and propelled himself to the fore, but his legs let him down at the last minute. His feet failed to work in synch with his body, and he pitched over hard onto the ground. As he landed, he looked up with some urgency. The three shots hit the gunman dead centre. He dropped to his knees at the side of the tree, the sub half raised and ready to fire. The man froze, his jaw falling slack with surprise, chest erupting in a blossom of crimson. His fingers tightened reflexively, as he jerked off a final round.

The bullets sprayed into the lawn around Don - sliced through the air where he'd just been standing. He hunched his shoulders up close to his ears, and threw his arms over his head. As a gesture, it was worse than futile. He was depending on a stroke of luck to save him . . . a stroke of luck, or the grace of God . . . a sharp pain and he knew he'd been hit.

For a while, after that, there was nothing. The stink of cordite and a strange unearthly silence. Don lay sprawled, flat out on his belly, his face pressed into the grass. He cracked his eyes open, and took a shallow breath. The world was flat and surreal from this angle. He rolled over then, attempting to push himself up, still clutching the Glock in his hands.

"Don, oh God, Don!"

_What the hell_ . . . it was Charlie, of course, skidding down to his knees beside him.

He tried to answer, tried to yell at him . . . to order him back, just in case. He shook his head in an effort to clear it, but the words wouldn't form in his mouth.

"It's all right," he choked it out, in the end, he found it hard to rip his gaze from the assassin. The man was motionless, his head turned to face them; eyes glassy and reassuringly dead. Don exhaled, and returned his scrutiny to Charlie. "You okay, buddy, you didn't get hit?"

"I'm fine, thanks to you," Charlie swallowed. He looked like he was going to be sick.

Don flopped back into Charlie's arms. The adrenalin seeped out of his body. He was shaking with reaction, and a fresh onslaught of pain, now he was no longer pumped full of endorphins. He closed his eyes and let Charlie support his weight. The world reeled and he felt decidedly spacey. It had been close – way too close for comfort. He took in a deep draught of air.

"You're gonna have to give me a hand, Chuck, I think maybe I tweaked something again."

"Yeah, right," Charlie rested a hand on his brow. "Lie still, Don, there's no way you're going anywhere."

"Oh crap."

And then of course, he remembered. The heart-stopping sting of a bullet. The last random scatter of reflex squeezed out by a dying man. He reached around, slowly, _cautiously,_ and then winced, as a sharp ache shot through his side. It had grazed the top of his ribcage, leaving a bloody furrow under his arm. In the scheme of things, he figured he'd been lucky . . . not serious, just bleeding and sore. It was his pelvis which worried him most of all, he wasn't kidding when he'd said he might have tweaked something. He felt fragile - made of broken eggshells. If he tried to stand, he knew for sure he would fall.

"You both okay?"

It was Granger. _Halle–fucking-lujah._ The agent was dressed as a medic.

"About time - " Don hastily shelved his fears, and tucked them well away behind a scowl. "Where the hell were you guys when I needed you? What the fuck is the FBI playing at – I thought you'd secured the house?"

"So did we," Megan's voice was grim. She'd been talking into her cell phone. "According to Warner, we just lost an agent. Matt Giordano – they cut his throat in the alleyway. Got in through your neighbour's backyard."

"Throat, huh? Like the guys in the delivery truck."

His heart was suddenly encased in dry ice, as he recalled the morning of the bombing. One more senseless murder on hs conscience, and yet another ripple of guilt. He'd barely even met Matt Giordano, but knew he was fresh-faced and popular. The guy had only recently come to LA, on his first posting, straight out of Quantico. And now, as a result of all this godamned mess, he was lying out back in the alley. Dead in a matter of seconds - his throat ripped open and exposed to the sky.

It was too similar to be a coincidence.

An identical cause of death and a matching MO - looked like the same hand had wielded the knife.

Any hope this was a storm in a teacup, had well and truly been put paid to, but then, he'd sensed it from the very beginning; the threat was deadly and primarily real. Ben Arendt was right, it was time to go. The terror cell had been reactivated. Even though he'd been alert and on his guard, the stealth attack had caught him by surprise. Don swore again, as he considered the dead agent. Hameed hadn't wasted much time.

Megan knelt down beside Charlie, and glanced quickly across at the assassin. Her face hardened at the thought of the man they had lost, and the phone calls she would soon have to make. "We picked someone up at the end of the street. A parked car - looks like he was the driver. Male, mid-twenties, of Middle Eastern origin; shot in the shoulder resisting arrest. I'm guessing he's also a part of the cell, but I doubt if he'll tell us anything."

"Best of luck with that," Don agreed with her. In his experience, there was no way the man would talk.

He closed his eyes, and fought off a wave of nausea. He felt sick and decidedly shaky. She leaned forward, and sensing his distress, laid a cool hand on his face.

"Do you still want to stick to the plan, Don? There's a real paramedic in the ambulance. I promise you, I'll take care of everything here. Parker and Getz are waiting outside."

"Wait a minute . . ." Charlie spoke up then. "Don, you're hurt, can't you see this changes everything? There's no way you can go through with it – for a start, you need to go to a hospital."

Don looked at Megan, and nodded. "My dad, Marissa and the baby?"

"David and Agent Emrich are with them. They're safe, Don, you have my word on it. Wasn't easy, but we kept them inside."

"You're not serious?" Charlie glared at them both. It was as though neither one of them could hear him. "I can't believe you're still thinking about it. You're lying here, bleeding all over my hands, and I doubt you can even stand up."

Don shifted. "Megan, give me a minute, please?"

She patted him gently on the shoulder. A silent message passed swiftly between them. She smiled, her eyes misting for a second, before she got back to her feet. "Okay, I'll go talk to Parker. Take it easy, Don, and don't be a stranger."

"Thanks."

He watched her head over the lawn to the house, the sunlight bright on her hair. He was safe now, at least for the moment. The yard was filling with people. Granger moved off to stand guard over the body which still lay sprawled under the tree. Don exhaled, and relaxed against Charlie. As he leaned back, pain lanced through his side again. He knew he needed medical attention. His shirt was sticky with blood.

He felt like he'd been granted a moment of grace. It was literally all he had left to him. Like a pale wash of sun between a roll of grey clouds, or a temporary lull between rain squalls. He sighed; better make the most of it. Any spare time was fast disappearing – slipping like sand through his fingers, and blown away on the edge of the storm.

So all right, it was now or never. He checked again - looked his brother over. As far as he could see, there were no ill effects. "You sure you're okay?"

Charlie smiled, with a hint of wry humour. "I suppose – why the hell shouldn't I be? A hitman just tried to kill both of us, and now he's lying dead in my yard."

"You make a very good point." Don smiled too. A sense of relief uncoiled inside him. He'd thought Charlie was going to be difficult, and in all honesty, he couldn't deal with it now.

"You're still going, aren't you?"

"Don't you see, Charlie, I have no choice. _All this_ . . . what just happened . . . I guess it kinda proves it more than ever." He stopped, the air growing cold in his lungs, as he gripped hold of Charlie's arm for reassurance. _Another miracle - they were so fucking lucky; _the sheer enormity washed over him again. "That man lying down by the tree over there, he didn't give a damn you were with me. Five minutes earlier, it was Marissa and Sweetie, do you want to take a bet on their chances? It's unlikely either one would've made it - no way they could have survived. Maybe next time, it might be dad's turn. Or perhaps they'll decide to use explosives. Yeah, that's cool – a remote detonator . . . it would blow the Craftsman sky-high."

"I hate it."

Charlie pulled him a fraction closer and Don manfully tried not to wince.

"Me too, but I have to do it. I have to know you're both safe."

"The protector."

For once, it didn't sound like a dirty word. Don felt a small sense of relief. "I guess, if you like. Makes me sound like some cheesy, seventies TV series. Don Eppes is – _The Protector._ Go figure."

"Cheesy is right," Charlie made a feeble but valiant effort to tease him. He broke down. "God, Don, you have to be careful. These people are deadly serious about wanting you out of the picture."

Don stiffened, not missing the allusion. It hurt, although he figured he deserved it. He wished there was some way of reassuring them. He didn't want dad and Charlie still worrying. He was not heading off on some suicide quest. He planned on staying very much alive.

"Hey, it's okay, you don't have to worry. I aim to throw a spoke in that wheel."

"Glad to hear it."

The affirmation was still emotional, but this time, Charlie sounded resigned. Don closed his eyes. They would be coming soon. He lay quietly and waited for the inevitable. He hurt and felt woozy and light-headed, but it wasn't unbearable pain. For the first time, in a very long while, he was happy to kill some minutes with Charlie. It wasn't quite the resolution he'd looked forward to, but it was better than he'd hoped for in the end.

The last few months had been one hell of a ride, and the rollercoaster wasn't done yet. In many ways, it would give him a sense of release when he no longer had to worry about his family. When it was over, and he could come home again, he told himself things would be different. They would have bridges to rebuild and some rocky roads to mend, but they were strong enough, he knew they could do it.

_Him and Charlie - they'd both learned valuable lessons - but in the end, it was family that mattered._

It was something to hold close throughout the coming months. No deprecation and no more uncertainty. Although he was sore and heavy-lidded, he felt alive, sharp and bright with clarity. Free from the morass of self-loathing, cleansed at last, of any vestiges of doubt.

There was peace here, in his mother's garden, but it was fragile and too easily shattered. When he was gone, and the threat had been lifted, dad and Charlie would be safe once again. As for him, he would use the time gainfully, to rebuild his broken body. And if he had any energy left over from that, then just maybe, it might help fix his mind.

"They're here." Charlie said, calmly.

Don looked up to see a gurney approaching. Parker and Getz and a guy he didn't recognise; it was probably the real paramedic - with any luck, he had some Demerol on him. He looked up at the sky. It was clear and blue, just another day in sunny California. It was just as blue where he was going, and the bonus was, his family would be safe. He squeezed Charlie's hand. It was time now. To leave all this for the indefinite future.

He felt no qualms or sudden flare of indecision.

It was for the best, and he was right to go.

* * *

_**Epilogue**_

* * *

_**Four weeks later . . . **_

Don had awakened early. He was restless and sleep had eluded him. He looked at the luminous face of his watch, closed his eyes, and tried in vain to sleep again. No good – he rolled gingerly out of bed, and reached for a glass of water. He finished it and stretched across for his crutches, a little achy, but in no real pain.

It was getting better slowly but surely.

Each day was a little easier.

He'd been working hard on his rehab, and was beginning to reap some of the rewards.

His regime was based on a six day week with a day off for rest and relaxation. In the mornings, he had physiotherapy, one on one, with a personal trainer, and then an hour in the hydrotherapy pool, working out in a flotation vest. By lunchtime he was usually exhausted and more than happy to take a siesta. He crashed deeply and usually dreamlessly, while he slept the sleep of the dead.

When he awoke, there was ultrasound treatment, and, _hallelujah,_ some deep tissue massage. Then it was time for the doctors to evaluate him. To run a barrage of yet more tests again. The results of his latest scans looked good, and he knew he was making progress. He was moving with less pain and more freedom. Both healing rates and alignment had improved.

Five thirty and dawn was breaking. The encroaching light ethereal and golden. The sun rose gradually over the mountains and lit the ancient city down below. By now, he knew all the sounds by heart. They began as soon as night started fading. The muezzin calling out to the faithful, and the deep throated toll of church bells.

He'd been right about the destination, of course. Ben Arendt had brought him back to Jerusalem. He didn't recall much about the journey itself, which had passed in a narcotic-fuelled haze. They'd stopped over in London for a couple of days, but he'd been too ill to appreciate the scenery. The bullet graze had become infected, and he'd been feverish and slightly delirious. He'd spent two nights in a clinic in Harley Street, drugged-up with morphine and lost in oblivion.

Don made his way onto the balcony, and looked out across the Kidron Valley. The sun was already a fiery gleam as it bounced off the Dome of the Rock. For now, the sky was clear and as sharp as lemons. It would get warmer as the day lengthened and grew older. He was used to the heat – but this was not like home. Here, it was dry and unflinchingly hot.

Jasmine; he gave an appreciative sniff. It smelled about the same as he remembered. Warm stone and citrus, cypress and sage, like the back of an apothecary's shop. _Or at least,_ he sought to qualify that; _as he imagined such a shop might smell. _

On the whole, he'd had very little time to think. He was moderately sure that was a good thing. His schedule was pretty much all-consuming. It kept him focused and determined to get well.

Strange, but it was now that he missed them. In the still time - the quiet of the morning. While his mind was uncluttered and tranquil, and the night was slowly fading into shadow. It made sense, in a crazy kind of way. They were half a day's time zone behind him. His world was fresh and acute with promise, but they hadn't yet made it to bed.

If he closed his eyes, then he could picture them. Don smiled and indulged himself a little. It was this time of day, if any, they would most likely be thinking of him.

_Charlie, looking slightly dishevelled, engulfed by a vast mountain of marking. The TV would be on, in the corner, while dad sat in the leather chair._

He'd sent weekly messages through Megan, staying upbeat and broadly generic. She in turn, had been pleased to inform him, there was no further sign of any threat. Alan and Charlie were still under surveillance, and would remain so, until this was over. Don leaned on the stonework balcony, and sighed. _Until he could go home again._

Something glinted in the trees down below him. He looked harder, but couldn't see any movement. He felt annoyed with his own paranoia, and made his way back slowly inside.

His suite was discreetly medical – more like a luxury hotel room. He rang the bell for his breakfast, and pulled a sweatshirt over his head. The nurse would be in with his meds very soon. He had a couple more minutes of privacy. He made a quick face at the crutches. At least now, he could shower alone.

His cell rang as he was about to sit down.

Don looked at his wristwatch and frowned. No prizes for guessing who it was, of course. Ben Arendt – _what the hell did he want so early?_

"What's up?"

He knew, even as he said it.

Ben Arendt didn't pull any punches. "Better start looking over your shoulder, my friend. Hameed is here. It's begun."

* * *

_The man pocketed the pair of binoculars and took one last drag on his cigarette. For a moment, he'd thought he might have been careless. Eppes had leaned forward, almost as if he had seen him. He'd stepped quickly back into the shadows, half hidden by the over-hanging branches. The ancient olive trees were gnarled and misshapen here – dense and cavern-like, forbidding of light. _

_He pinched the cigarette out carefully. There was no trace he'd ever been here. Within hours, the place would be covered. He didn't underestimate Zev Ben Arendt. _

_He wasn't worried, but he'd had to see for himself. To verify it was the same man. No mistaking – he remembered those malt-coloured eyes. They'd looked into his own, once before._

_For just a few, very dangerous, seconds. _

_It was those seconds which now signed his death warrant. _

_It was ironic and even slightly amusing they should cross each other's paths once again. _

_He stared up at the walls of the clinic. It would be difficult, but not impossible. Eppes would not escape him this time. This journey had come to an end. _

**THE END**

Copyright - Lisa Paris - 2008


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